“I don’t understand, Milord,” she said, to gain time and to draw her adversary out. “What are you saying? Is there some hidden meaning behind your words?”
“Good Lord, no!” Lord Winter said, with apparent bonhomie. “You want to see me, so you come to England. I learn of your desire, or rather I intuitively guess it—so, in order to spare you the fatigue and inconvenience of a nocturnal arrival at port, I detail one of my officers to meet you. I place a carriage at his command, and he brings you here to this castle, of which I’m the governor. And here, in order to satisfy our mutual desire to see each other, I’ve prepared a chamber for you. Why should my telling you this be any more surprising than what you’ve told me?”
“What I find surprising is that you should be so well-informed about my arrival.”
“But that’s all very simple, dear Sister. Didn’t you notice that when your little ship came into the road, the captain requested permission to enter the port by sending ahead a small boat, which contained his logbook and passenger manifest? I am commandant of the port, so they brought that book to me, and I recognized your name. My heart told me what your lips have just confirmed: that just to see me you’d exposed yourself to all the perils of the ocean, so restless at this season. I sent my cutter to meet you, and you know the rest.”
Milady could see that Lord Winter was lying, and was all the more alarmed. “Brother,” she said, “wasn’t that Milord Buckingham I saw on the jetty, when I arrived this evening?”
“Himself,” replied Lord Winter. “I can understand how the sight of him must have struck you, having just come from a country where his name must be on everyone’s lips. I know his armaments against France have very much preoccupied your friend the cardinal.”
“My friend the cardinal!” cried Milady, seeing that, on this point as well, Lord Winter appeared to know everything.
“Isn’t he your friend?” replied the baron, negligently. “Pardon me, I thought he was. But we’ll return to milord duke shortly. Our conversation had taken such a sentimental turn, I hate to give the subject up. You came, you say, just to see me?”
“Yes.”
“Very well, then, I’ll see to it that your wishes are fulfilled. We’ll see each other every day.”
“Am I supposed to stay here forever, then?” Milady demanded, unable to keep an edge of fear out of her voice.
“Do you find fault with the lodgings, Sister? Ask for whatever you want, and I’ll hasten to have it given to you.”
“I don’t have any of my women, or my people . . .”
“You’ll have all of that, Madame. Just tell me what servants were provided by your first husband, and though I’m only your brother-in-law, I’ll try to do the same.”
“My first husband!” cried Milady, staring at Lord Winter with genuine fright.
“Yes, your French husband. I’m not referring to my brother. As you may have forgotten, your first husband is still alive. I can write to him, and he can inform me on the subject.”
A cold sweat pearled Milady’s brow. “You’re joking,” she said brokenly.
“Do I look like it?” the baron asked, rising and taking a step back.
“Or rather, you insult me,” she continued, gripping the arms of her chair and levering herself stiffly up.
“I, insult you!” said Lord Winter with contempt. “In truth, Madame, how is that possible?”
“In truth, Sir, you must be drunk or insane,” Milady said. “Leave me, and send me my woman.”
“But women are so indiscreet, Sister! Can’t I serve as your maid? That way, all our secrets would stay in the family.”
“Insolent dog!” cried Milady. As if launched by a catapult, she sprang toward the baron, who waited impassively, but with one hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Here, now,” he said, “I know you’re accustomed to assassinating people, but I warn you, I’ll defend myself, even against you.”
“Oh, I believe it,” said Milady. “You look like someone who would raise his hand against a woman.”
“Perhaps I do—but I have an excuse for it. Mine wouldn’t be the first man’s hand ever placed on you, I imagine.”
And the baron raised a finger in a slow accusing gesture to point at her left shoulder.
Milady emitted a strangled snarl and retreated to a corner of the chamber, like a panther preparing to pounce.
“Growl all you want!” cried Lord Winter. “But don’t try to bite, for I warn you, you won’t like the consequences. There are no attorneys here to make a case for you, no knight errant to take me to task for imprisoning a fair lady. But I have judges at hand prepared to deal with a woman so shameless as to slip, bigamously, into my elder brother’s bed. I warn you, I’ll turn you over to an executioner who will make your shoulders match.”
Milady’s eyes glared such lightning, that though the baron was an armed man before an unarmed woman, he felt a chill of fear shake him to his soul. Nonetheless he continued, with increasing fury, “Yes, I can understand that having inherited from my brother, it would be sweet to inherit from me. But you should know in advance, before you kill me or have me killed, that I’ve taken precautions. Not a penny of what I possess will pass into your hands. Weren’t you already rich enough, with almost a million at your disposal? Couldn’t you give up your career of murder, or do you just do evil for the supreme pleasure of it?
“Believe me when I tell you that if the memory of my brother weren’t sacred to me, you’d rot in an official dungeon, or satisfy the curiosity of sailors at Tyburn.102 I’ll keep my peace, but you must put up with your captivity quietly. In two or three weeks I’ll leave for La Rochelle with the army, but before I depart, you’ll ship out on a vessel setting sail for our southern colonies.103 And rest assured that you’ll be accompanied by someone who will blow your brains out the first time you try to return to England or the Continent.”
Milady listened with such attention that her smoldering eyes seemed to dilate.
“But for now,” continued Lord Winter, “you’ll reside in this castle. Its walls are thick, its doors are strong, and its bars are solid. Besides, your window looks directly out over the sea, and the men who mount guard around this apartment and watch all the passages to the courtyard are my household marines, devoted to me unto death. Even if you got as far as the courtyard, you’d still have to pass through three iron gates. My men have strict orders: at your first step, gesture, or word of attempted escape, they’ll shoot. If they kill you, English justice will owe me a favor for having saved it the trouble.
“Ah! I see your features regaining their calm; your expression indicates a return of confidence. Two weeks, three weeks, you say— bah! I have an inventive mind, I’ll come up with some idea. I’m infernally clever, and I’ll find some victim or other. Inside of two weeks, you say to yourself, I’ll be out of here. Ha! Try it!”
Milady, seeing her inner thoughts betrayed, dug her nails into her flesh to suppress any expression but that of anguish.
Lord Winter continued, “You’ve already met the officer who commands here in my absence. You’ve already seen that he knows how to obey an order, for I know you didn’t come here from Portsmouth without trying to get him to talk. What did you say to him? Could a marble statue have been more impassive, or more mute? You’ve tried your power of seduction on many a man, and unfortunately you’ve always been successful. But try this one, by God! If you succeed, I’ll admit you’re the devil himself.”
He strode to the door and opened it brusquely. “Call Mister Felton,” he said. Then, to Milady: “Wait a moment longer, and I’ll introduce him to you.”
Then a strange silence fell between these two people, during which they could hear the approach of slow, regular footsteps. Then, from the shadows of the corridor, a human shape appeared, and the young lieutenant stood in the doorway, awaiting the baron’s orders. “Come in, John,” said Lord Winter.
“Come in, and shut the door.”
The young officer ent
ered.
“Now,” said the baron, “take a good look at this woman. She’s young, beautiful, and possesses every earthly attraction. Fine: but she’s also a monster who, at twenty-five, is guilty of so many crimes, it would take a year to inscribe them all in the archives of our courts. Her voice is convincing, her beauty serves as bait to trap her victims—and to do her justice, her body even pays what she promises. She’ll try to seduce you, perhaps even kill you.
“I raised you up from misery, Felton, had you made a lieutenant, even saved your life once—you know on what occasion. For you, I’m not only a protector, but a friend; not only a benefactor, but a father. This woman has returned to England to conspire against my life; but I hold this serpent in my power. Well, I’ve called you in to tell you this, friend Felton—John—my child! Guard me against this woman, and more especially, guard yourself. Swear on your word to preserve her for the punishment she’s earned. John Felton, I put my trust in your word. John Felton, I rely on your loyalty.”
“Milord,” said the young officer, putting into his expression all the hatred he could find in his heart, “Milord, I swear to you it shall be done as you desire.”
Milady received this severe look like a victim resigned to her fate. It was impossible to imagine a more mild or submissive expression than that which reigned over her beautiful face. Lord Winter himself could scarcely recognize the tigress who an instant before had appeared to be preparing to attack.
“She’s not to leave this chamber. Do you hear, John?” continued the baron. “She is to correspond with no one, and to speak with no one but you, if you should do her the honor to address a word to her.”
“That’s sufficient, Milord. I have sworn.”
“And now, Madame, try to make your peace with God—for you’ve already been judged by men.”
Milady let her head fall to her breast, as if crushed by this judgment. Lord Winter left with a gesture to Felton, who followed him, shutting the door behind.
A moment later, from the corridor outside could be heard the heavy footstep of a sentry, a marine with a boarding ax in his belt and a musket in his hand.
Milady stayed for several minutes in the same submissive posture, in case she was watched through the keyhole. Then she slowly raised her head, revealing a face that had resumed its formidable expression of menace and defiance. She went and listened at the door, and took a look out the window.
Then she returned, buried herself in the vast armchair, and began to think.
LI
“Officer!”
Meanwhile, the cardinal waited for news from England, but no news arrived, except reports either maddening or menacing.
No matter how tightly La Rochelle was invested, no matter how certain success appeared, due to all the precautions that had been taken—and due particularly to the new dyke, which prevented any outside ships from entering the harbor of the besieged city—the siege might still continue for quite a while. This was a great affront to the king’s arms, and a great nuisance for Monsieur le Cardinal. Though he no longer had the imbroglio between Louis XIII and Anne of Austria to be concerned about, for that business was over, he still had to worry about the bitter rivalry between Monsieur de Bassompierre and the Duc d’Angoulême.
As for Monsieur, the king’s brother, who’d begun the siege, he left it to the cardinal to finish it.
The city, despite the incredible perseverance of its mayor, had undergone a mutiny by those in favor of surrender. The mayor had hanged the mutineers. These executions curbed the malcontents, who thereafter decided they’d rather die of hunger, a death that seemed slower and less certain than strangulation.
Outside, from time to time, the besiegers captured messengers the Rochelois sent to Buckingham, or spies Buckingham sent to the Rochelois. In either case, the judicial process was brief, as Monsieur le Cardinal pronounced the single word: “Hanged!” The king was invited to view the hanging, and His Majesty would come languidly along, finding a good place from which to watch the operation in all its details. This distracted him somewhat, and helped him to endure the siege with more patience—but it didn’t prevent him from succumbing to ennui and talking often about returning to Paris. Despite all his ingenuity, if His Eminence ever ran out of messengers and spies to hang, he was liable to be acutely embarrassed.
Nevertheless, time passed, and the Rochelois refused to surrender. The most recently captured spy had been the bearer of a letter to Buckingham, reporting that the city was in great extremity. But instead of ending, “If relief doesn’t arrive in two weeks, we will surrender,” it ended, “If relief doesn’t arrive in two weeks, we shall all be dead of hunger by the time you do get here.”
The Rochelois, then, had no hope but in Buckingham. Buckingham was their Messiah. It was evident that if they learned they absolutely could not rely upon Buckingham, they would lose both courage and hope.
So the cardinal waited with great impatience for news from England announcing that Buckingham would not come.
The question of taking the city by storm, though often debated in the King’s Council, had always been rejected. First of all, La Rochelle seemed impregnable. And the cardinal, for all his hawkish oratory, knew quite well that the horror of the blood spilled in such a battle, with Frenchmen killing Frenchmen, would set domestic politics back sixty years—and the cardinal was known, at that time, as what today we would call a Man of Progress.
In fact, a sack of La Rochelle in 1628, and the ensuing slaughter of three or four thousand Huguenots, would all too closely resemble the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre104 of 1572. Though the king, good Catholic that he was, wasn’t at all opposed to such an extreme measure, proposals to storm the city always lost out to the argument of the besieging generals that La Rochelle was impregnable, except to famine.
Meanwhile, the cardinal couldn’t expel from his mind an anxiety, almost a fear of Milady, his terrible emissary, for he understood the strange nature of this woman, part serpent, part lioness. Had she betrayed him? Was she dead? He was sufficiently well acquainted with her to know that, whether she acted for him or against him, as friend or enemy, she would never be stopped unless faced with insurmountable obstacles. What those might be, he had no way of knowing.
And yet he counted on Milady—with good reason. He had divined in this woman’s past the terrible things that only his red mantle could conceal, and he sensed that, whatever her motives, this woman was his, as she would find no other power more able to support her against her enemies.
He resolved, therefore, to prosecute the war with the resources at hand, hoping for a fortunate event without relying on foreign success. He continued construction of the famous dyke that was to starve La Rochelle, while looking daily out over that unhappy city, home of so much deep misery and so many heroic virtues. Recalling the policy of Louis XI, his political predecessor—as he himself was the predecessor of Robespierre—Richelieu murmured the maxim: “Divide and conquer.”
Henri IV, when besieging Paris, had had bread and provisions thrown over the walls; the cardinal had leaflets thrown over the walls of La Rochelle, portraying to the Rochelois how unjust, egotistical, and barbaric was the conduct of their leaders. The leaflets claimed these leaders had grain to spare, but refused to part with it; they had adopted the maxim (for they, too, had maxims) that it didn’t matter if women, children, and old men died, so long as the men who defended the walls were strong and healthy.
By that time, the maxim the leaflets imputed to La Rochelle’s leaders, though not adopted officially, had passed from theory into actual practice—either out of the citizens’ devotion to the cause, or from their inability to do otherwise. Nonetheless, the leaflets did their damage. They reminded the men that the children, women, and old men who were dying were their sons, their wives, and their fathers, and it would be more just if everyone suffered the same misery, which would evoke a more unanimous resolve.
These leaflets had the effect hoped for by their author, in that they pe
rsuaded a fair number of the inhabitants to open private negotiations with the royal army.
But just as the cardinal was about to see his methods bear fruit, and was applauding himself for employing them, a returning citizen of La Rochelle managed to cross the royal lines and enter the city— God knows how, so tight was the surveillance of Bassompierre, Schomberg, and the Duc d’Angoulême, themselves watched over by the cardinal. This Rochelois came from Portsmouth and told of having seen a magnificent fleet ready to set sail within a week. Furthermore, in a message he brought to the mayor, Buckingham announced that at last the great league against France was about to declare itself, and the realm would be simultaneously invaded by English, Imperial, and Spanish armies. This letter was read publicly throughout the city, copies were posted on every street corner, and those who had begun to open negotiations with the besiegers suspended them, resolved to await this relief so pompously promised.
This unexpected event restored all of Richelieu’s former anxieties, and forced him, despite himself, to turn his eyes to the other side of the sea.
Meanwhile, exempt from the anxieties of its true and only leader, the royal army led a merry life. There was no shortage of provisions in the camp, or of regular pay. All the corps rivaled one another in acts of gaiety and audacity. To capture spies and hang them, to undertake hazardous expeditions along the dyke or on the sea, to invent mad exploits and then execute them coolly, were the pastimes that made these days pass quickly for the army—days that were otherwise so long, not only for the Rochelois, harried by fear and famine, but also for the cardinal, who persecuted them so persistently.
Like the lowliest soldier in the army, the cardinal was always in the saddle, pensively surveying the works, progressing so much more slowly than his desire, the construction of which had brought under his orders engineers from every corner of France. Sometimes, if he encountered a musketeer of Tréville’s company, he approached him and looked him over—then, not recognizing him as one of our four comrades, he turned his regard, and his thoughts, elsewhere.
The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED) Page 56