A light appeared under her door, announcing the return of her jailers. Milady, who had risen, quickly draped herself over the armchair, with her head thrown back, her beautiful hair undone and disheveled, her breasts barely covered by her lace collar, now artistically disarranged. One hand was over her heart, while the other hung limp.
The bolts slid back; the door groaned on its hinges; footsteps sounded in the chamber, approaching her.
“Put that table there,” said a voice the prisoner recognized as Felton’s.
The order was obeyed. “Bring lamps, and relieve the sentry,” Felton continued.
Two such orders given to the same individual told Milady that her servants were to be the same men as her guards—in other words, soldiers.
Felton’s orders were obeyed with a silent speed that gave a good idea of how strictly he maintained discipline.
Eventually Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward her.
“So, she’s asleep,” he said. “Fine. She can eat when she wakes.”
But the soldier, more susceptible than the officer, had drawn near to Milady. “Lieutenant!” he said. “This woman isn’t asleep.”
“What do you mean, not asleep?” said Felton. “What’s she doing, then?”
“She’s unconscious. Her face is very pale, and I’ve listened, but I can’t hear her breathing.”
“You’re right,” said Felton, looking Milady over from where he stood, without moving a step toward her. “Go inform Lord Winter that the prisoner has passed out. This is unexpected, and I’m not sure what to do.”
The soldier left to carry out his officer’s orders. Felton sat down on a chair that happened to be near the door, waiting without saying a word or making a move.
Milady was highly skilled at the art, much studied by women, of peering out through her lashes while seemingly keeping her eyes closed. She examined Felton, who sat with his back toward her. She watched him for almost ten minutes, and during that time her impassive guardian never turned around once.
She knew that Lord Winter would soon arrive, which would only stiffen her jailer’s resolve, so her first attempt had failed. But she accepted this, like one who has yet to reach the end of her resources. She raised her head, opened her eyes, and uttered a faint sigh.
At the sound of this sigh, Felton finally turned around.
“Ah! You’ve revived, Madame!” he said. “Then my business here is finished. If you need anything, you may call for it.”
“Oh, my God! My God! How I’ve suffered!” Milady murmured in her harmonious voice, like that of the ancient enchantresses, who charmed those they wished to destroy.
And she fell back again on the armchair, assuming a position even more graceful—and more revealing—than the first.
Felton got up.
“Your meals will be served three times a day, Madame,” he said. “In the morning at nine, in the afternoon at one, and in the evening at eight. If that is not to your satisfaction, you may specify whatever times you prefer and we shall conform to your wishes.”
“But am I to be confined all alone in this vast and dismal chamber?” Milady asked.
“A local woman has been engaged for you. She will come to the castle tomorrow, and will assist you whenever you desire her presence.”
“I thank you, Sir,” the prisoner replied humbly.
Felton made a slight bow and turned toward the door. Just as he was about to leave, Lord Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier who’d been sent to inform him of Milady’s condition. He had a bottle of smelling salts in his hand.
“Well, what’s all this? What do we have here?” he said mockingly, on seeing the prisoner sitting up, and Felton about to leave. “Has the dying woman returned to life? Good God, Felton, my lad—don’t you see how naïve she thinks you are? This is just the first act of the comedy, and no doubt we’ll have the pleasure of seeing the rest of them unfold, one after another.”
“That’s what I thought, Milord,” said Felton, “but, since the prisoner is a woman, after all, I didn’t wish to be deficient in those duties a proper gentleman owes to a lady—if not for her sake, then for my own.”
At these words of Felton’s, Milady shuddered to her fingertips, as if ice had passed through her veins.
“So,” the baron said, laughing, “that beautiful hair so carefully disordered, that ivory skin and that languorous look, haven’t yet seduced you, you heart of stone?”
“No, Milord,” the impassive young man responded. “It will take more than these feminine tricks and coquetries to corrupt me, I assure you.”
“In that case, my bonny lieutenant, let’s leave Milady to her devices and go to supper. But she has a fertile imagination, so you can be sure that the second act of this comedy will follow hard upon the first.”
And with these words, Lord Winter, laughing, left the room armin-arm with Felton.
“I’ll have your life for that, Felton” Milady muttered under her breath, “‘I assure you.’ You miserable would-be monk, you pathetic soldier in a uniform cut from a cassock.”
“By the by, Milady,” said Winter, pausing in the doorway, “don’t let this little disappointment steal your appetite. Try that poulet, and those fish—they’re not poisoned, I promise! I get along very well with my chef, and as he’s not my heir, I have complete confidence in him. So may you. Adieu, dear Sister—until your next sudden swoon.”
This was more than Milady could stand. Her hands clenched on the chair’s arms and she ground her teeth. Her eyes were fixed on the door as it closed behind Lord Winter and Felton. As soon as she was alone, she was gripped by a new wave of despair. She cast her eyes on the table, where a knife gleamed; she seized it, only to be frustrated anew: the blade was blunt, and made of soft silver that would bend before it cut.
Laughter burst out from the other side of the not-quite-closed door. “Ha ha!” cried Lord Winter. “You see, Felton, my lad—you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my boy. She would have killed you! This is a fine illustration of one of her traits: to rid herself, one way or another, of everyone who gets in her way. If I’d listened to you, she’d have a pointed knife made of steel. That would have been the end of Felton: she’d have cut your throat, and then everyone else’s. Look at her grip, John; she knows how to handle a knife.”
In truth, Milady still held the knife balanced in her hand—but at these words, this final insult, her hand, her strength, and even her will slackened. The knife fell to the floor.
“You were right, Milord,” said Felton, in a tone of deep disgust that stabbed Milady to the heart. “You were right about her, and I was mistaken.”
And once again, the two men left the room.
This time, Milady listened more carefully than previously, to make sure their footsteps went off down the length of the corridor.
“I’m lost,” she murmured. “I’m in the power of men on whom I have about as much effect as if they were statues of bronze or granite. They know all my methods and have a defense for every weapon in my arsenal.
“Nonetheless, I will not believe this must end as they say it must.”
As this final thought, this instinctive return of hope shows, sentiments of weakness and fear never survived long in the fiery furnace of Milady’s soul. She sat down at the table, sampled from several dishes, drank a little Spanish wine, and felt her resolution return.
By the time she went to bed she had replayed, parsed, analyzed, and examined from every angle every word, movement, and gesture of her jailers—even their silences. From this careful and profound study she concluded that, all things considered, it was Felton who was the more vulnerable of her persecutors.
One phrase, more than any other, kept returning to the prisoner’s mind:
“If I’d listened to you,” Lord Winter had said to Felton.
That meant Felton had spoken in her favor, since Lord Winter hadn’t been willing to listen to him.
“Weak or strong
,” Milady said to herself, “that man has a spark of pity in his soul. From that spark, I will light a fire that will devour him.
“As for the other: he knows me, and knows what he can expect from me, if I ever escape his grasp. It’s pointless to try anything with him. But Felton . . . that’s another thing. He’s a young, rather naïve man, who seems pure and virtuous. And that will be his downfall.”
And Milady went to bed and fell asleep, with a smile on her lips. Anyone who saw her sleeping would have said she was a young maiden, dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear at the next fête.
LIII
The Second Day of Captivity
Milady dreamed that d’Artagnan was finally in her grasp, and she was assisting at his torture and execution. It was the sight of his odious blood, dripping from the executioner’s axe, that brought such a charming smile to her lips.
She slept like a prisoner lulled by a vision of hope.
In the morning, when they came into her chamber, she was still in bed. Felton stayed in the corridor; the woman he’d spoken of the night before had just arrived, and he’d brought her with him. This woman entered, approached Milady’s bed, and offered her services.
“I have a fever,” Milady said; she was naturally pale, with a complexion that might deceive someone seeing her for the first time. “I haven’t slept all night, not for a moment. I’m suffering abominably. Will you be more humane to me than they were yesterday? All I ask is permission to stay in bed.”
“Do you want a doctor to be sent for?” asked the woman.
Felton listened to this dialogue without saying a word.
Milady considered: the more people there were around her, the better the chance of finding someone whose sympathies she might engage—but the more she’d be subjected to the suspicion and surveillance of Lord Winter. Besides, a doctor might declare her illness was feigned, and Milady, having lost the first bout of the contest, didn’t want to lose the second.
“Fetch a doctor?” she said. “To what end? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a comedy, and doubtless they’d say the same today. Since last night, they’ve already had plenty of time to send for a doctor.”
“Then tell us yourself, Madame, what remedy you need,” Felton said impatiently.
“How can I know? My God! All I know is that I’m suffering. Give me whatever you like; it hardly matters.”
“Go find Lord Winter,” said Felton, tired of these endless complaints.
“Oh, no! No!” cried Milady. “No, Sir—don’t call him, I implore you. I’m fine, I don’t need anything. Just don’t call him.”
This plea was so convincing in tone, so eloquent in its vehemence, that Felton, fascinated, took several steps into the chamber.
He’s moved, Milady thought.
“Madame,” said Felton, “if you’re really suffering, we’ll send for a doctor—and if you’re pretending, well, it will be the worse for you, but at least we won’t have anything to blame ourselves for.”
Milady made no reply, only buried her beautiful face in her pillow and burst into tears.
Felton regarded her for a moment with his usual impassivity. Then, as her sobs showed no sign of ending soon, he left. The woman followed him. Lord Winter never appeared.
“I see we’re getting somewhere at last,” murmured Milady with a savage joy, veiling her face behind the drape of her sleeve to hide her smile of satisfaction from anyone who might be watching.
Two hours passed.
It’s time now for my illness to fade, Milady thought. Time to rise, and see what other successes we can achieve today. I have only ten days, and as of tonight, two of them will be gone.
When they had entered Milady’s chamber that morning, they’d brought breakfast. Now she calculated that it couldn’t be long before they returned to clear the table, and she’d have another chance at Felton.
She was right. Felton reappeared, and without looking to see if Milady had touched her food, he made a sign that the table, which had been brought in bearing the breakfast dishes, should be carried away.
Felton stayed behind. He had a book in his hand.
Milady, reclining on a divan near the chimney, beautiful, pale, and submissive, looked like a virgin saint awaiting martyrdom.
Felton approached her and said, “Lord Winter, who is a Catholic like you, Madame, thought that you shouldn’t be deprived of the rites and ceremonies of your church. He’s consented to allow you to read the daily mass. Here is a book containing your rituals.”
At the air with which Felton deposited the book on the little table near Milady, and the tone in which he said the words your rituals, she raised her head and looked at him attentively. His lips were curved in a disdainful smile.
It was then that, by the severe trim of his hair, by the exaggerated simplicity of his attire, by his forehead like polished marble, no doubt just as hard and impenetrable, she recognized him as one of those somber English Puritans she’d encountered so often at the court of King James. She’d even met them at the court of the King of France where, despite the memory of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, they sometimes came to find refuge.
She had one of those sudden inspirations that come to people of genius in great crises, one of those supreme moments that decide fortunes and lives.
Those two words, your rituals, and one glance at Felton, revealed to her how critical her reply would be. However, with that quickness of mind that was hers alone, the reply sprang ready-made to her lips:
“Me?” she said, with a disdain echoing that she’d heard in the young officer’s voice. “Me, Sir? My rituals! Lord Winter, that corrupted Catholic, knows perfectly well that I’m not of his religion. This is another one of his snares!”
“Then, of what religion are you, Madame?” asked Felton, with an astonishment he couldn’t quite suppress despite all his self-control.
“I will tell it,” Milady cried, in feigned exaltation, “on the day when I’ve suffered all for my faith.”
The look Felton gave her showed Milady the size of the breach she’d opened with one sentence.
However, the young officer remained mute and motionless; only his look had spoken for him.
“I am in the hands of mine enemies,” she continued, in that tone of zeal common to the Puritans. “Very well; God will save me, or I shall perish for my God! That is the response I beg you to make to Lord Winter. As to that book,” she added, pointing to the missal with her finger, but not touching it, as if it would contaminate her, “you can take it back and make use of it yourself, as no doubt you’re the accomplice of Lord Winter in both his persecutions and his heresies.”
Felton said nothing. He picked up the book, displaying the same repugnance as before, and retired, pensive.
Lord Winter came about five o’clock in the evening. Milady had had time during the day to map out her plan of conduct, and received him like a woman once more in command of herself.
“So,” the baron said, seating himself in a chair facing Milady’s and nonchalantly stretching his feet out toward the hearth, “it appears we’ve undergone a little apostasy!”
“What do you mean, Sir?”
“I mean that, since the last time we saw each other, you’ve changed your religion. You haven’t, by any chance, married a Protestant as a third husband, have you?”
“Explain yourself, Milord,” replied the prisoner, with studied dignity. “I hear your words, but I don’t understand them.”
“Ah, I see: you have no religion at all. I must say,” Lord Winter sneered, “I like that best.”
“It would certainly accord most closely with your own principles,” Milady replied coldly.
“I must confess, it’s pretty much all the same to me.”
“You don’t need to confess an indifference to religion, Milord— your crimes and debaucheries confess it for you.”
“What? You talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina? You speak of crimes, Lady Macbeth? By God, unless I mi
sunderstand you, that’s pretty shameless.”
“You only speak this way because you know you’re overheard, Sir,” Milady said with asperity, “and you want to prejudice your jailers and executioners against me.”
“My jailers! My executioners! Oh, to be sure. I see you’ve taken a turn for the poetic, Madame, and yesterday’s comedy has become tonight’s tragedy. But nonetheless, in eight days you’ll be where you belong, and my work will be complete.”
“An infamous work! An impious work!” Milady glowed with the exaltation of a victim provoking a judge.
“My word!” said Winter, rising. “I think the bitch has lost her mind. Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I’ll have to put you in a dungeon. God’s wounds! Has that Spanish wine gone to your head? If so, never fear—it will wear off soon enough, with no ill aftereffects.”
And Lord Winter withdrew in a cloud of oaths, which was typical of the cavaliers of the time.
As Milady had surmised, Felton was, in fact, just outside the door, and hadn’t missed a word of the scene.
“Yes, go on, brother-in-law,” Milady said to herself. “There will be aftereffects—but you, you imbecile, won’t see them coming until it’s far too late.”
Silence returned to the chamber. Two more hours passed. They brought Milady her supper, but found her absorbed in saying her prayers aloud—prayers she’d heard from an old servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She seemed to be lost in ecstasy, and appeared to pay no attention to what was happening around her. Felton made a sign that she shouldn’t be disturbed, and when they were finished, he left quietly with the soldiers.
Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to their end, especially as it seemed to her that the soldier on sentry duty didn’t keep the same pace as before, and seemed to be listening.
Well enough, then—for the moment. She rose, took her place at the table, ate a few bites, and drank only water.
The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED) Page 58