Reply to them, my Lord, the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe.


Without remorse. The baron knows, as well as myself, that Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very favorably to commute her punishment to transportation.


You will not sign that order, my Lord!


I will not sign this order! And why not?


Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady.


I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn. This lady is infamous.


My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand her liberty of you.


Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?


My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lord, think of what you’re about to do, and beware of going too far!


What do you say? God pardon me! I really think he threatens me!


No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes.


Mr. Felton, you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest.


You will hear me to the end, my Lord. You have seduced this young girl; you have outraged, defiled her. Repair your crimes toward her; let her go free, and I will exact nothing else from you.


You will exact!


My Lord, my Lord, beware! All England is tired of your iniquities; my Lord, you have abused the royal power, which you have almost usurped; my Lord, you are held in horror by God and men. God will punish you hereafter, but I will punish you here!


Ah, this is too much!


I ask it humbly of you, my Lord, sign the order for the liberation of Milady de Winter. Remember that she is a woman whom you have dishonored.


Withdraw, sir, or I will call my attendant, and have you placed in irons.


You shall not call. Beware, my Lord, you are in the hands of God!


In the hands of the devil, you mean!


Sign, my Lord; sign the liberation of Milady de Winter,


By force? You are joking! Holloa, Patrick!


Sign, my Lord!


Never.


Never?


Help!


A letter from France, my Lord.


From France! Ah, traitor, you have killed me!


Murder!


I knew it! I guessed it! But too late by a minute, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!


Laporte. Laporte, do you come from her?


Yes, monseigneur, but too late, perhaps.


Silence, Laporte, you may be overheard. Patrick, let no one enter. Oh, I cannot tell what she says to me! My God, I am dying!


Too late by a minute! too late by a minute! Oh, my God, my God! what a misfortune!


Gentlemen, leave me alone with Patrick and Laporte—ah, is that you, De Winter? You sent me a strange madman this morning! See the state in which he has put me.


Oh, my Lord! I shall never console myself.


And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter. I do not know the man who deserves being regretted during the whole life of another man; but leave us, I pray you.


You will live, my Lord, you will live!


What has she written to me? what has she written to me? Read me her letter.


Oh, my Lord!


Obey, Laporte, do you not see I have no time to lose? Read! read! I cannot see. Read, then! For soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die without knowing what she has written to me.


MY LORD, By that which, since I have known you, have suffered by you and for you, I conjure you, if you have any care for my repose, to countermand those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war of which it is publicly said religion is the ostensible cause, and of which, it is generally whispered, your love for me is the concealed cause. This war may not only bring great catastrophes upon England and France, but misfortune upon you, my Lord, for which I should never console myself. Be careful of your life, which is menaced, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to see an enemy in you. Your affectionate ANNE


Have you nothing else to say to me by the living voice, Laporte?


The queen charged me to tell you to watch over yourself, for she had advice that your assassination would be attempted.


And is that all—is that all?


She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you.


Ah. God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger! Patrick, bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept. Now the scent bag of white satin, on which her cipher is embroidered in pearls. Here, Laporte, these are the only tokens I ever received from her—this silver casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial you will add— And you will add to them this knife,


All is useless, he is dead.


Dead, dead!


Wretch! what have you done?


I have avenged myself!


Avenged yourself. Rather say that you have served as an instrument to that accursed woman; but I swear to you that this crime shall be her last.


I don’t know what you mean, and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my Lord. I killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused you yourself to appoint me captain; I have punished him for his injustice, that is all.


One last favor, my Lord!


What?


What o’clock is it?


It wants ten minutes to nine,


God has so willed it!


Be punished alone, for the first, miserable man! but I swear to you by the memory of my brother whom I have loved so much that your accomplice is not saved.


MY DEAR COUSIN, Here is the authorization from my sister to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Béthune, the air of which you think is bad for her. My sister sends you this authorization with great pleasure, for she is very partial to the little girl, to whom she intends to be more serviceable hereafter. I salute you,


The superior of the convent of Béthune will place in the hands of the person who shall present this note to her the novice who entered the convent upon my recommendation and under my patronage.


A very great lady has told me that this means that somebody is talking of you somewhere.


Good Lord!


MONSEIGNEUR, Let your Eminence be reassured. His Grace the Duke of Buckingham will not set out for France. I report to the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune, where I will await your orders.


I am very ignorant of these matters, but however distant from the court we may be, however remote from the interests of the world we may be placed, we have very sad examples of what you have related. And one of our boarders has suffered much from the vengeance and persecution of the cardinal!


One of your boarders? oh, my God! Poor woman! I pity her, then.


Monsieur Cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not always judge people by the appearance.


Good! who knows! I am about, perhaps, to discover something here; I am in the vein. Alas, I know it is so. It is said that we must not trust to the face; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if not in the most beautiful work of the Lord? As for me, I shall be deceived all my life perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose countenance inspires me with sympathy.


You would, then, be tempted to believe that this young person is innocent?


The cardinal pursues not only crimes; there are certain virtues which he pursues more severely than certain offenses.


Permit me, madame, to express my surprise.


At what?


At the language you use.


What do you find so astonishing in that language? And yet I speak ill of him. Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which he will release me by one of his satellites. Whither should I go? Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which the cardinal cannot reach if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his hand? If I were a man, that would barely be possible; but what can a woman do? This young boarder of yours, has she tried to fly?


No, that is true; but she—that is another thing; I believe she is detained in France by some love affair.


Ah, if she loves she is not altogether wretched.


Then, I behold another poor victim?


Alas, yes.


You are not an enemy of our holy faith?


Who—I? I a Protestant? Oh, no! I call to witness the God who hears us, that on the contrary I am a fervent Catholic!


Then, madame, be reassured; the house in which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our power to make you cherish your captivity. You will find here, moreover, the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and well-behaved.


What is her name?


She was sent to me by someone of high rank, under the name of Kitty. I have not tried to discover her other name.


Kitty! What? Are you sure?


That she is called so? Yes, madame. Do you know her?


And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a sympathy?


Why, this evening, today even. But you have been traveling these four days, as you told me yourself. This morning you rose at five o’clock; you must stand in need of repose. Go to bed and sleep; at dinnertime we will rouse you.


How, madame. I have scarcely seen you, and you already wish to deprive me of your company, upon which I had counted a little, I must confess, for the time I have to pass here?


No, madame, only I thought I had chosen my time ill; you were asleep, you are fatigued.


Well, what can those who sleep wish for—a happy awakening? This awakening you have given me; allow me, then, to enjoy it at my ease,


How unfortunate I am!


I have been here six months without the shadow of recreation. You arrive, and your presence was likely to afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit the convent at any moment. How, you are going soon?


At least I hope so,


I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal, that would have been another motive for sympathy between us.


What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have likewise been a victim of that wicked priest.


Hush! let us not, even here, speak thus of him. All my misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before a woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me. Are you also the victim of a treachery?


No, but of my devotion—of a devotion to a woman I loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give it still.


And who has abandoned you—is that it?


I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank God—for it would have cost me very dear to think she had forgotten me. But you, madame, you appear to be free, and if you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so.


Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been before?


Oh, as to friends, you would have them wherever you want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!


That does not prevent, my being alone or being persecuted.


Hear me, we must trust in heaven. There always comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God; and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well—I have powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my account, may also exert themselves for you.


Oh, when I said I was alone, it is not for want of friends in high places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal. The queen herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister. I have proof that her Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of his Eminence persons who had served her.


Trust me, madame; the queen may appear to have abandoned those persons, but we must not put faith in appearances. The more they are persecuted, the more she thinks of them; and often, when they least expect it, they have proof of a kind remembrance.


Alas! I believe so; the queen is so good!


Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and noble queen, that you speak of her thus!


That is to say, that I have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number of her most intimate friends. I am acquainted with Monsieur de Putange; I met Monsieur Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de Tréville.


Monsieur de Tréville! do you know Monsieur de Tréville?


Yes, perfectly well—intimately even.


The captain of the king’s Musketeers?


The captain of the king’s Musketeers.


Why, then, only see! we shall soon be well acquainted, almost friends. If you know Monsieur de Tréville, you must have visited him?


Often! All those he is in the habit of receiving!


Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my friends.


Well! I know Monsieur de Louvigny, Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac.


Don’t you know a gentleman named Athos? have I said anything that has wounded you?


No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentleman, and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know him well.


Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but some of his friends, Messieurs Porthos and Aramis!


Indeed! you know them likewise? I know them. That is to say. I am not really very intimate with any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends, Monsieur d’Artagnan, say a great deal about them.


You know Monsieur d’Artagnan! Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?


Why, why, by the title of friend.


You deceive me, madame, you have been his mistress!


It is you who have been his mistress, madame!


I?


Yes, you! I know you now. You are Madame Bonacieux!


Well, yes, madame. Are we rivals?


Speak, madame! Have you been, or are you, his mistress?


Oh, no! Never, never!


I believe you, but why, then, did you cry out so?


Do you not understand? Can you not understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence? Do you not perceive that I know all—your abduction from the little house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face—you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had seen you! Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at last!


Oh, pardon me, pardon me! Pardon me, I love him so much!


Oh, you beautiful, good little creature! How delighted I am to have found you! Let me look at you! Oh, yes it is you indeed! From what he has told me, I know you now. I recognize you perfectly.


Then you know what I have suffered, since he has told you what he has suffered; but to suffer for him is happiness.


Yes, that is happiness.


And then, my punishment is drawing to a close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see him again; and then the past will no longer exist.


This evening? What do you mean? Do you expect news from him?


I expect himself.


Himself? D’Artagnan here?


Himself!


But that’s impossible! He is at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. He will not return till after the taking of the city.


Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my D’Artagnan, the noble and loyal gentleman?


Oh, I cannot believe you!


Well, read, then!


Yes, yes, the letter is precise. Do you know what that warning was?


No, I only suspect he has warned the queen against some fresh machinations of the cardinal.


Yes, that’s it, no doubt!


can it be he?


He, he! can it be he?


Alas, no! it is a man I don’t know, although he seems to be coming here. Yes, he checks his pace; he stops at the gate; he rings.


You are sure it is not he?


Yes, yes, very sure!


Perhaps you did not see well.


Oh, if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I should know him!


Yes, he has entered. It is for you or me! My God, how agitated you seem! Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal.


Hush! somebody is coming.


Did you come from Boulogne?


Yes. Who wants me?


A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.


And who wishes to speak with me?


Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne.


Then let him come in, if you please.


Oh, my God, my God! Can it be bad news?


I fear it.


I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.


Permit you? I beseech you. it is you! Yes, it is I. From La Rochelle; and you? From England. Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him.


Ah, this is a fortunate chance—one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?


I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?


His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you.


I only arrived yesterday. And what have you been doing since yesterday? I have not lost my time.


Oh, I don’t doubt that.


Do you know whom I have encountered here?


Guess.


That young woman whom the queen took out of prison. Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was unacquainted.


here is a chance which may pair off with the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!


Imagine my astonishment, when I found myself face to face with this woman!


Does she know you?


No.


Then she looks upon you as a stranger?


I am her best friend.


Upon my honor, it takes you, my dear countess, to perform such miracles!


And it is well I can, Chevalier, for do you know what is going on here?


They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from the queen.


Indeed! And who?


D’Artagnan and his friends.


Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to the Bastille.


Why is it not done already?


What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I cannot comprehend.


Indeed!


Yes.


Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that among these four men two only are to be feared—D’Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse—he may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling himself about. But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle? I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on the road hither to take her away.


The devil! What’s to be done?


What did the cardinal say about me?


I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post; and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have to do.


I must, then, remain here?


Here, or in the neighborhood.


You cannot take me with you?


No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal.


Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?


Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the cardinal; let me know always where to find you.


Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here.


Why?


You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute.


That’s true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?


Bah!


you forget that I am her best friend.


Ah, that’s true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this little woman—


That he may be at ease.


Is that all?


He will know what that means.


He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?


Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the trouble of a little diligence.


My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers.


Capital!


What, capital?


Yes, I want your chaise.


And how shall I travel, then?


On horseback.


You talk very comfortably,—a hundred and eighty leagues!


What’s that?


One can do it! Afterward?


Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal.


Well.


You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?


I have my full power.


Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who presents himself in your name.


Very well.


Don’t forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess.


To what purpose?


I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence in that poor little Madame Bonacieux.


That’s true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?


Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may be lost.


You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run needlessly about the neighborhood.


That’s correct; wait!


Do you want a map?


Oh, I know this country marvelously!


You? When were you here?


I was brought up here.


Truly?


It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere.


You will wait for me, then?


Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do—at Armentières.


Where is that Armentières?


A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country.


Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of danger.


That is well understood.


And in that case, how shall I know where you are?


You do not want your lackey?


Is he a sure man?


To the proof.


Give him to me. Nobody knows him. I will leave him at the place I quit, and he will conduct you to me.


And you say you will wait for me at Armentières?


At Armentières.


Write that name on a bit of paper, lest I should forget it. There is nothing compromising in the name of a town. Is it not so?


Eh, who knows? Never mind,


I will compromise myself.


Well,


said Rochefort, taking the paper from Milady, folding it, and placing it in the lining of his hat, “you may be easy. I will do as children do, for fear of losing the paper—repeat the name along the route. Now, is that all?”


I believe so.


Let us see: Buckingham dead or grievously wounded; your conversation with the cardinal overheard by the four Musketeers; Lord de Winter warned of your arrival at Portsmouth; D’Artagnan and Athos to the Bastille; Aramis the lover of Madame de Chevreuse; Porthos an ass; Madame Bonacieux found again; to send you the chaise as soon as possible; to place my lackey at your disposal; to make you out a victim of the cardinal in order that the abbess may entertain no suspicion; Armentières, on the banks of the Lys. Is that all, then?


In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a miracle of memory. A propos, add one thing—


What?


I saw some very pretty woods which almost touch the convent garden. Say that I am permitted to walk in those woods. Who knows? Perhaps I shall stand in need of a back door for retreat.


You think of everything.


And you forget one thing.


To ask me if I want money.


That’s true. How much do you want?


All you have in gold.


I have five hundred pistoles, or thereabouts.


I have as much. With a thousand pistoles one may face everything. Empty your pockets.


There.


Right. And you go—


In an hour—time to eat a morsel, during which I shall send for a post horse.


Capital! Adieu, Chevalier.


Adieu, Countess.


Commend me to the cardinal.


Commend me to Satan.


Well,


what you dreaded has happened. This evening, or tomorrow, the cardinal will send someone to take you away.


Who told you that, my dear?


I heard it from the mouth of the messenger himself.


Come and sit down close to me,


Here I am.


Wait till I assure myself that nobody hears us.


Why all these precautions?


You shall know. Then, he has well played his part.


Who has?


He who just now presented himself to the abbess as a messenger from the cardinal.


It was, then, a part he was playing?


Yes, my child.


That man, then, was not—


That man, is my brother.


Your brother!


No one must know this secret, my dear, but yourself. If you reveal it to anyone in the world, I shall be lost, and perhaps yourself likewise.


Oh, my God!


Listen. This is what has happened: My brother, who was coming to my assistance to take me away by force if it were necessary, met with the emissary of the cardinal, who was coming in search of me. He followed him. At a solitary and retired part of the road he drew his sword, and required the messenger to deliver up to him the papers of which he was the bearer. The messenger resisted; my brother killed him.


Oh!


Remember, that was the only means. Then my brother determined to substitute cunning for force. He took the papers, and presented himself here as the emissary of the cardinal, and in an hour or two a carriage will come to take me away by the orders of his Eminence.


I understand. It is your brother who sends this carriage.


Exactly; but that is not all. That letter you have received, and which you believe to be from Madame de Chevreuse—


Well?


It is a forgery.


How can that be?


Yes, a forgery; it is a snare to prevent your making any resistance when they come to fetch you.


But it is D’Artagnan that will come.


Do not deceive yourself. D’Artagnan and his friends are detained at the siege of La Rochelle.


How do you know that?


My brother met some emissaries of the cardinal in the uniform of Musketeers. You would have been summoned to the gate; you would have believed yourself about to meet friends; you would have been abducted, and conducted back to Paris.


Oh, my God! My senses fail me amid such a chaos of iniquities. I feel, if this continues. I shall go mad!


Stop—


What?


I hear a horse’s steps; it is my brother setting off again. I should like to offer him a last salute. Come! Adieu, brother! The good George!


Dear lady, pardon me for interrupting you; but what do you advise me to do? Good heaven! You have more experience than I have. Speak; I will listen.


In the first place, it is possible I may be deceived, and that D’Artagnan and his friends may really come to your assistance.


Oh, that would be too much! so much happiness is not in store for me!


Then you comprehend it would be only a question of time, a sort of race, which should arrive first. If your friends are the more speedy, you are to be saved; if the satellites of the cardinal, you are lost.


Oh, yes, yes; lost beyond redemption! What, then, to do? What to do?


There would be a very simple means, very natural—


Tell me what!


To wait, concealed in the neighborhood, and assure yourself who are the men who come to ask for you.


But where can I wait?


Oh, there is no difficulty in that. I shall stop and conceal myself a few leagues hence until my brother can rejoin me. Well, I take you with me; we conceal ourselves, and wait together.


But I shall not be allowed to go; I am almost a prisoner.


As they believe that I go in consequence of an order from the cardinal, no one will believe you anxious to follow me.


Well?


Well! The carriage is at the door; you bid me adieu; you mount the step to embrace me a last time; my brother’s servant, who comes to fetch me, is told how to proceed; he makes a sign to the postillion, and we set off at a gallop.


But D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan! if he comes?


Shall we not know it?


How?


Nothing easier. We will send my brother’s servant back to Béthune, whom, as I told you, we can trust. He shall assume a disguise, and place himself in front of the convent. If the emissaries of the cardinal arrive, he will take no notice; if it is Monsieur d’Artagnan and his friends, he will bring them to us.


He knows them, then?


Doubtless. Has he not seen Monsieur d’Artagnan at my house?


Oh, yes, yes; you are right. Thus all may go well—all may be for the best; but we do not go far from this place?


Seven or eight leagues at the most. We will keep on the frontiers, for instance; and at the first alarm we can leave France.


And what can we do there?


Wait.


But if they come?


My brother’s carriage will be here first.


If I should happen to be any distance from you when the carriage comes for you—at dinner or supper, for instance?


Do one thing.


What is that?


Tell your good superior that in order that we may be as much together as possible, you ask her permission to share my repast.


Will she permit it?


What inconvenience can it be?


Oh, delightful! In this way we shall not be separated for an instant.


Well, go down to her, then, to make your request. I feel my head a little confused; I will take a turn in the garden.


Go; and where shall I find you?


Here, in an hour.


Here, in an hour. Oh, you are so kind, and I am so grateful!


How can I avoid interesting myself for one who is so beautiful and so amiable? Are you not the beloved of one of my best friends?


Dear D’Artagnan! Oh, how he will thank you!


I hope so. Now, then, all is agreed; let us go down.


You are going into the garden?


Yes.


Go along this corridor, down a little staircase, and you are in it.


Excellent; thank you!


Do you hear anything?


Yes, the rolling of a carriage.


It is the one my brother sends for us.


Oh, my God! Come, come! courage! Go to your chamber, you have perhaps some jewels you would like to take.


I have his letters,


Well, go and fetch them, and come to my apartment. We will snatch some supper; we shall perhaps travel part of the night, and must keep our strength up.


Great God! my heart beats so I cannot walk.


Courage, courage! remember that in a quarter of an hour you will be safe; and think that what you are about to do is for his sake.


Yes, yes, everything for him. You have restored my courage by a single word; go, I will rejoin you.


Milady ran up to her apartment quickly; she there found Rochefort’s lackey, and gave him his instructions. He was to wait at the gate; if by chance the Musketeers should appear, the carriage was to set off as fast as possible, pass around the convent, and go and wait for Milady at a little village which was situated at the other side of the wood. In this case Milady would cross the garden and gain the village on foot. As we have already said, Milady was admirably acquainted with this part of France. If the Musketeers did not appear, things were to go on as had been agreed; Mme. Bonacieux was to get into the carriage as if to bid her adieu, and she was to take away Mme. Bonacieux. Mme. Bonacieux came in; and to remove all suspicion, if she had any, Milady repeated to the lackey, before her, the latter part of her instructions. Milady asked some questions about the carriage. It was a chaise drawn by three horses, driven by a postillion; Rochefort’s lackey would precede it, as courier. You see, everything is ready. The abbess suspects nothing, and believes that I am taken by order of the cardinal. This man goes to give his last orders; take the least thing, drink a finger of wine, and let us be gone.


Yes, yes, let us be gone.


Milady made her a sign to sit down opposite, poured her a small glass of Spanish wine, and helped her to the wing of a chicken. See, if everything does not second us! Here is night coming on; by daybreak we shall have reached our retreat, and nobody can guess where we are. Come, courage! take something. But at the moment the glass touched her lips, her hand remained suspended; she heard something on the road which sounded like the rattling of a distant gallop. Then it grew nearer, and it seemed to her, almost at the same time, that she heard the neighing of horses.


Oh, my God! what is that noise?


That of either our friends or our enemies. Stay where you are, I will tell you.


Oh, my God, my God what is it?


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


Yes, yes, let us fly!


Come, then, come, then! Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late! For the last time, will you come?


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


Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never! Drink. This wine will give you strength, drink! This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself, but, my faith! we do what we can!


D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan! is it you? This way! this way!


Constance? Constance? where are you? where are you? My God!


Oh, D’Artagnan, my beloved D’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last! You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!


Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!


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


She! What she?


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


Your companion! Of what companion are you speaking, dear Constance?


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


Her name, her name! My God, can you not remember her name?


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


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


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


Water, water! Water!


Oh, poor woman, poor woman!


She revives! Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!


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


Mine, monsieur,


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


She.


But who is she?


Oh, I remember! the Comtesse de Winter.


And what do you believe?


I believe everything,


D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan! where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!


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


Useless! useless! For the poison which she pours there is no antidote.


Yes, yes! Help, help! help!


Constance, Constance!


I was not deceived, here is Monsieur d’Artagnan; and you are his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis. Gentlemen, you are, as I am, in search of a woman who, must have passed this way, for I see a corpse. Gentlemen, since you do not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lord de Winter, brother-in-law of that woman.


Be welcome, my Lord, you are one of us.


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


You see!


Are they both dead?


No, fortunately Monsieur d’Artagnan has only fainted.


Ah, indeed, so much the better!


Friend, be a man! Women weep for the dead; men avenge them!


Oh, yes! yes! If it be to avenge her, I am ready to follow you.”


we abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate woman. She was an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat her as one of your sisters. We will return someday to pray over her grave.” weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas, would I could weep like you!”


shall we not pursue that woman?”


I have measures to take.”


she will escape us, and it will be your fault, Athos.”


I will be accountable for her.” let everyone retire to his own apartment. D’Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of everything; be easy.”


if there are any measures to take against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law.”


—she is my wife!” and leave me to act. You must perceive that in my quality of a husband this concerns me. Only, D’Artagnan, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from that man’s hat, upon which is written the name of the village of—”


I comprehend! that name written in her hand.”


there is a god in heaven still!”


To wait,


What is to be done?


To wait! Patience! one of our party is still wanting. Wait for me. I will soon be back,


What’s the manner? Has she left Armentières? Silence, D’Artagnan! I have charged myself with this affair. It is for me, then, to interrogate Grimaud. Where is she? Far from here? Alone? Gentlemen, she is alone within half a league of us, in the direction of the river.


That’s well. Lead us, Grimaud.


Is she there, Grimaud? Silence, then! Here we are!


She is there,


And Bazin?


While I watched the window, he guarded the door.


Good! You are good and faithful servants.


Put back that weapon, D’Artagnan! this woman must be tried, not assassinated. Wait an instant, my friend, and you shall be satisfied. Come in, gentlemen.


What do you want?


We want. Charlotte Backson, who first was called Comtesse de la Fère, and afterwards Milady de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield.


That is I! that is I! what do you want?


We wish to judge you according to your crime, you shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. M. d’Artagnan, it is for you to accuse her first.


Before God and before men. I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening.


We bear witness to this,


I accuse this woman of having attempted to poison me, in wine which she sent me from Villeroy, with a forged letter, as if that wine came from my friends. God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place.


Before God and before men. Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to the murder of the Baron de Wardes; but as no one else can attest the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.


Your turn, my Lord,


Before God and before men. I accuse this woman of having caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham. assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and gave her in charge to a loyal servant. She corrupted this man; she placed the poniard in his hand; she made him kill the duke. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton is paying with his head for the crime of this fury! My brother, who made you his heir, died in three hours of a strange disorder which left livid traces all over the body. My sister, how did your husband die? Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of Felton, assassin of my brother, I demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.


my turn. I married that woman when she was a young girl; I married her in opposition to the wishes of all my family; I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that this woman was branded—this woman was marked with a fleur-de-lis on her left shoulder.


Oh. I defy you to find any tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence against me. I defy you to find him who executed it.


Silence!


It is for me to reply to that!


What man is that? What man is that?


Ask that woman,


for you may plainly see she knows me!


The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille! Oh, grace, grace, pardon!


I told you well that she would know me. Yes, I am the executioner of Lille, and this is my history.


I then swore that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his accomplice, since she had urged him to the crime, should at least share his punishment. I suspected where she was concealed. I followed her, I caught her, I bound her; and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark upon her that I had imprinted upon my poor brother. The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in making his escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to remain in his place till he should be again a prisoner. My poor brother was ignorant of this sentence. He rejoined this woman; they fled together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy. This woman passed for his sister. The Lord of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated saw this pretend sister, and became enamoured of her—amorous to such a degree that he proposed to marry her. Then she quitted him she had ruined for him she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la Fère— Then,


what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”


The punishment of death,” replied D’Artagnan.


The punishment of death,” replied Lord de Winter.


you who are her judges, what is the sentence you pronounce upon this woman?”


The punishment of death,” replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.


A thousand pistoles to each of you, if you will assist my escape; but if you deliver me up to your masters, I have near at hand avengers who will make you pay dearly for my death.


Change these lackeys,” said he; “she has spoken to them. They are no longer sure.


You are cowards, miserable assassins—ten men combined to murder one woman. Beware! If I am not saved I shall be avenged.


You are not a woman,” said Athos, coldly and sternly. “You do not belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, whither we send you back again.


Ah, you virtuous men!” said Milady; “please to remember that he who shall touch a hair of my head is himself an assassin.


The executioner may kill, without being on that account an assassin,” said the man in the red cloak, rapping upon his immense sword. “This is the last judge; that is all. Nachrichter, as say our neighbors, the Germans.


If I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of,” shrieked Milady, “take me before a tribunal. You are not judges! You cannot condemn me! Because I am not willing to die!” cried Milady. “Because I am too young to die!


I will enter a cloister; I will become a nun,” said Milady.


You were in a cloister,” said the executioner, “and you left it to ruin my brother.


Oh, my God!” cried she, “my God! are you going to drown me?


I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!” said he. “I cannot consent that this woman should die thus!


D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried she; “remember that I loved you!


If you take one step farther, D’Artagnan,” said he, “we shall cross swords together.


Willingly, monseigneur,” said the executioner; “for as I am a good Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my functions on this woman.


I pardon you,” said he, “the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation forever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace!


I pardon you,” said he, “for the poisoning of my brother, and the assassination of his Grace, Lord Buckingham. I pardon you for the death of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die in peace!


Pardon me, madame, for having by a trick unworthy of a gentleman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!


I am lost!” murmured Milady in English. “I must die! Where am I to die?” said she.


On the other bank,” replied the executioner.


Well, gentlemen,” said the brave captain, “I hope you have been well amused during your excursion.


Prodigiously,” replied Athos in the name of himself and his comrades.


it is false; he has just written to me!


Holloa, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said he, “is not that you whom I see yonder? Ah, monsieur!” said the young man, “I meet you, then, at last! This time you shall not escape me!


Neither is it my intention, monsieur, for this time I was seeking you; in the name of the king, I arrest you.


How! what do you say?” cried D’Artagnan.


I say that you must surrender your sword to me, monsieur, and that without resistance. This concerns your head, I warn you.


Who are you, then?” demanded D’Artagnan, lowering the point of his sword, but without yet surrendering it.


I am the Chevalier de Rochefort,” answered the other, “the equerry of Monsieur le Cardinal Richelieu, and I have orders to conduct you to his Eminence.


We are returning to his Eminence, monsieur the Chevalier,” said Athos, advancing; “and you will please to accept the word of Monsieur d’Artagnan that he will go straight to La Rochelle. I must place him in the hands of guards who will take him into camp. We will be his guards, monsieur, upon our word as gentlemen; but likewise, upon our word as gentlemen,” added Athos, knitting his brow, “Monsieur d’Artagnan shall not leave us.


Gentlemen,” said he, “if Monsieur d’Artagnan will surrender his sword to me and join his word to yours, I shall be satisfied with your promise to convey Monsieur d’Artagnan to the quarters of Monseigneur the Cardinal.


You have my word, monsieur, and here is my sword.


This suits me the better,” said Rochefort, “as I wish to continue my journey.


If it is for the purpose of rejoining Milady,” said Athos, coolly, “it is useless; you will not find her.


What has become of her, then?” asked Rochefort, eagerly.


Return to camp and you shall know.


We shall wait for you, D’Artagnan,” said Athos, loud enough for the cardinal to hear him.


So they tell me, monseigneur.


Do you know why?


No, monseigneur, for the only thing for which I could be arrested is still unknown to your Eminence.


Holloa! what does that mean?


If Monseigneur will have the goodness to tell me, in the first place, what crimes are imputed to me, I will then tell him the deeds I have really done.


Crimes are imputed to you which had brought down far loftier heads than yours, monsieur,


What, monseigneur?


You are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of the kingdom; you are charged with having surprised state secrets; you are charged with having tried to thwart the plans of your general.


And who charges me with this, monseigneur? a woman branded by the justice of the country; a woman who has espoused one man in France and another in England; a woman who poisoned her second husband and who attempted both to poison and assassinate me!


What do you say, monsieur? and of what woman are you speaking thus?


Of Milady de Winter, yes, of Milady de Winter, of whose crimes your Eminence is doubtless ignorant, since you have honored her with your confidence.


Monsieur, if Milady de Winter has committed the crimes you lay to her charge, she shall be punished.


She has been punished, monseigneur.


And who has punished her?


We.


She is in prison?


She is dead.


Dead! dead! Did you not say she was dead?


Three times she attempted to kill me, and I pardoned her; but she murdered the woman I loved. Then my friends and I took her, tried her, and condemned her.


So, you have constituted yourselves judges, without remembering that they who punish without license to punish are assassins?


Monseigneur, I swear to you that I never for an instant had the intention of defending my head against you. I willingly submit to any punishment your Eminence may please to inflict upon me. I do not hold life dear enough to be afraid of death.


Yes, I know you are a man of a stout heart, monsieur. I can therefore tell you beforehand you shall be tried, and even condemned.


Another might reply to your Eminence that he had his pardon in his pocket. I content myself with saying: Command, monseigneur; I am ready.


Your pardon?


Yes, monseigneur,


And signed by whom—by the king?


No, by your Eminence.


By me? You are insane, monsieur.


Monseigneur will doubtless recognize his own handwriting.


Dec. 3, 1627 It is by my order and for the good of the state that the bearer of this has done what he has done. RICHELIEU


He is meditating by what sort of punishment he shall cause me to die. Well, my faith! he shall see how a gentleman can die.


I am lost! That is my condemnation, he will spare me the ennui of the Bastille, or the tediousness of a trial. That’s very kind of him.


Here, monsieur. I have taken from you one carte blanche to give you another. The name is wanting in this commission; you can write it yourself.


Monseigneur, my life is yours; henceforth dispose of it. But this favor which you bestow upon me I do not merit. I have three friends who are more meritorious and more worthy—


You are a brave youth, D’Artagnan. Do with this commission what you will; only remember, though the name be blank, it is to you I give it.


I shall never forget it. Your Eminence may be certain of that.


Rochefort! Rochefort, you see Monsieur d’Artagnan. I receive him among the number of my friends. Greet each other, then; and be wise if you wish to preserve your heads.


We shall meet again, shall we not, monsieur?


When you please,


An opportunity will come,


Hey?


Here I am, my friends, not only free, but in favor. Tell us about it.


This evening; but for the moment, let us separate. Here, my dear Athos, this naturally belongs to you.


Friend, for Athos this is too much; for the Comte de la Fère it is too little. Keep the commission; it is yours. Alas! you have purchased it dearly enough.


Ah, ah! is that you, dear friend?


How do you think these garments fit me?


Wonderfully, but I come to offer you a dress which will become you still better.


What?


That of a lieutenant of Musketeers. Here, my friend, write your name upon it and become my chief.


Yes, yes, that would flatter me very much; but I should not have time enough to enjoy the distinction. During our expedition to Béthune the husband of my duchess died; so, my dear, the coffer of the defunct holding out its arms to me, I shall marry the widow. Look here! I was trying on my wedding suit. Keep the lieutenancy, my dear, keep it.


You, our friend, our intelligence, our invisible protector, accept this commission. You have merited it more than any of us by your wisdom and your counsels, always followed by such happy results.


Alas, dear friend! our late adventures have disgusted me with military life. This time my determination is irrevocably taken. After the siege I shall enter the house of the Lazarists. Keep the commission, D’Artagnan; the profession of arms suits you. You will be a brave and adventurous captain.


Well, they likewise have refused me.


That, dear friend, is because nobody is more worthy than yourself.


I shall then have no more friends. Alas! nothing but bitter recollections.


You are young, and your bitter recollections have time to change themselves into sweet remembrances.


I shall probably kill you the fourth,


It is much better both for you and for me to stop where we are,


Corbleu! I am more your friend than you think—for after our very first encounter, I could by saying a word to the cardinal have had your throat cut!