“‘Listen to me,” he said. ‘That man is gone, so for the moment, at least, he’s escaped my vengeance. But let us be united, as we’d planned—and then you may leave it to Lord Winter to maintain his honor, and that of his wife.”
“Lord Winter!” cried Felton.
“Yes,” said Milady, “the late Lord Winter. And now you can see it all, can’t you? Buckingham was on the Continent for nearly a year. A week before his return, the elder Lord Winter suddenly died, leaving me his sole heir. Who killed him? God knows, doubtless, as He knows all, but I accuse no one . . .”
“Oh, what an abyss of evil!” Felton cried.
“Lord Winter died without revealing anything to his brother. He’d planned to conceal the terrible secret until it burst like thunder over the head of the culprit. Your protector saw nothing more than a misalliance between his elder brother and a penniless girl. I knew I couldn’t look for support to a man cheated out of his hope of inheritance. I went to France, resolved to live there for the rest of my life. But my entire fortune was in England; when communications were cut by the war, I ran out of money and had to return. Six days ago I landed at Portsmouth.”
“And so?” said Felton.
“So, Buckingham had doubtless heard somehow of my return. He spoke of me to Lord Winter, who was already prejudiced against me, and told him his sister-in-law was a whore, a branded woman. The pure, noble voice of my husband was no longer there to defend me. Lord Winter believed everything he was told, all the more easily because it was in his interest to believe it. He had me arrested, conducted here, and placed under your guard. You know the rest: the day after tomorrow, he banishes me to transportation—the day after tomorrow, I shall descend to the level of a convict. Oh, the web is tightly woven! It’s a clever plot, and my honor will never survive it.
“So you see, Felton, there’s nothing left for me but death. Felton— give me that knife!”
And at these words, as if all her strength was exhausted, Milady fell limp and languishing into the young officer’s arms—and he, intoxicated with love, fury, and repressed sensuality, received her with exhilaration. He pressed her against his heart, trembling at the breath from her beautiful mouth, lost in the feeling of her breast against his own.
“No, no,” he murmured. “No, thou shalt live, in honor and purity—thou shalt live to triumph over thy enemies.”
Milady slowly pushed against him with her hand, while drawing him nearer with her look; while Felton, on his part, took hold of her again, and implored her like a divinity.
“Oh, death! Death!” she said, raising her voice and her eyes. “Death rather than shame! Felton, my Brother, my friend—I beg you!”
“No,” cried Felton. “No, thou shalt live, and be avenged!”
“Felton, I bring misfortune to everyone around me! Abandon me, Felton! Felton, let me die!”
“Then let us die together!” he cried, and pressed his lips on those of the prisoner.
Several sharp knocks sounded from the door. This time, Milady really pushed him away.
“Listen,” she said. “We’ve been overheard. Someone’s coming! It’s all over! We’re lost!”
“No,” said Felton. “It’s only the sentry warning me of the changing of the guard.”
“Then run to the door and open it yourself.”
Felton obeyed; this woman already ruled his mind and his soul.
He found a sergeant commanding a guard patrol. “Well, what is it?” the young lieutenant demanded.
“You told me to open the door if I heard anyone call for help,” said the sentry, “but you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you cry out, but couldn’t understand what you said. I tried to open the door, but it was locked from inside, so I called the sergeant.”
“And here I am,” said the sergeant.
Felton, bewildered and nearly out of his head, stood there speechless.
Milady realized she had to take hold of the situation. She ran to the table, took up the knife Felton had placed there, and cried, “And by what right do you prevent me from dying?”
“Great God!” cried Felton, seeing the knife glitter in her hand.
At that moment, a burst of ironical laughter reverberated from the corridor. The baron, attracted by the commotion, stood in the doorway in his nightgown, his sword under his arm.
“Ha ha ha! Here we are, at the final act of the tragedy,” he said. “You see, Felton, the drama has followed all the steps I predicted. But don’t worry, no blood will flow here.”
Milady realized that all was lost unless she gave Felton immediate and terrible proof of her courage.
“You are wrong, Milord, blood will flow—and may it drown those who are responsible for it!”
Felton cried out and threw himself toward her, but too late: Milady stabbed herself. But the blade fortunately—or rather, skillfully—struck the banded metal corset that, at this period, defended a woman’s abdomen like a cuirass. It slid along this, tearing her dress, and penetrated at a slant between the flesh and the ribs.
Milady’s dress was nonetheless drenched with blood in a second. She fell to the floor in seeming unconsciousness.
Felton seized the knife. “See, Milord,” he said, wrapped in gloom, “see here a woman under my guard, who has killed herself!”
“Easy, Felton,” said Lord Winter. “She’s not dead—demons don’t die so easily. Be easy, and go wait for me in my rooms.”
“But, Milord . . .”
“Go. That’s an order.”
At this command from his superior, Felton obeyed; but while leaving, he slid the knife into his jacket.
As to Lord Winter, he contented himself with calling for the woman who served Milady. When she had come, he commended the still-fainting prisoner to her care and left the woman alone with her.
However, since despite his suspicions the wound might be serious, he immediately sent a rider to fetch a doctor.
LVIII
Escape
As Lord Winter had thought, Milady’s wound wasn’t dangerous. As soon as Milady was alone with the woman whom the baron had called, and who hastened to undress her, she opened her eyes.
However, it was important to pretend to be weak and in pain— no hard thing for an actress like Milady. The poor woman was completely duped by the prisoner, so much so that she insisted on staying to watch over her all night, despite Milady’s feeble protests.
Fortunately, the woman’s presence didn’t interfere with Milady’s thinking.
There could be no more doubt but that Felton was convinced: Felton was hers. In his current state of mind, if an angel appeared to him to accuse Milady of sin, he’d take the celestial being for an agent of Satan.
Milady smiled at this thought; though Felton was now her only hope, her only means of salvation, he was hers.
But Lord Winter might suspect him, and might have Felton watched.
Toward four in the morning the doctor arrived. However, in the time since Milady had stabbed herself, the wound had closed; the doctor couldn’t measure either its direction or its depth. He could tell only, from Milady’s pulse, that the case was not serious.
In the morning, Milady sent away the woman who’d attended her, under the pretext that she hadn’t slept well during the night and needed rest.
She was focused on a single hope, that Felton would come at the breakfast hour—but Felton did not come.
Had her fears been realized? Was Felton, under suspicion by the baron, about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one more day: Lord Winter had announced her embarkation for the 23rd, and it was already the morning of the 22nd.
Nevertheless, she still waited patiently for the hour of dinner.
Although she’d eaten nothing in the morning, dinner was brought at the usual time. And Milady saw with a shock that the soldiers guarding her now wore different uniforms.
She then risked asking what had become of Felton, and was told he’d left the castle on horseback an hour before.<
br />
She asked if the baron was still in the castle. The soldier said he was, and had given orders to be informed if the prisoner wanted to speak with him.
Milady replied that she was too weak at the moment, and her only desire was to be left alone. The soldier went out, leaving the dinner covered.
Felton had been sent away, and the marines he commanded had been replaced—so Felton was no longer trusted.
This was the final blow to the prisoner.
Once she was alone, she got up. The bed in which she’d remained so they would believe her seriously wounded now burned her like a hot brazier. She inspected the door: the baron had had a plank nailed over the grating, no doubt fearing she would use the opening in some diabolical way to seduce her guards.
But Milady was pleased. She was now free to indulge her rage without being seen. She paced her chamber with the fury of a mad woman, like a tigress trapped in an iron cage. Certainly, if she’d been left with the knife, instead of killing herself, she’d have been trying to devise some way to kill the baron.
At six o’clock Lord Winter came in, armed to the teeth. This man, whom before these events Milady had regarded as a gentleman buffoon, had become an admirable jailer: he seemed prepared for anything, informed of everything, and able to guess whatever he couldn’t know.
A single look at Milady told him what had been passing through her mind.
“So it’s come to that,” he said. “Well, you won’t kill me today. You have no more weapons, and besides, I’m on my guard. You had begun to pervert my poor Felton; he was succumbing to your infernal influence, but I’ll save him. It’s all over, and he’ll never see you again.
“Gather your things, for tomorrow you go. I’d postponed the embarkation to the 24th, but I think it’s more likely to happen if it happens sooner. Tomorrow by noon I’ll have the order for your exile, signed by Buckingham. If you speak a single word to anyone before boarding the ship, my sergeant has orders to blow your brains out. If, on the ship, you speak a word to anyone before the captain permits it, he has orders to cast you into the sea. That’s settled.
“Goodbye, then. That’s all I have to say to you today. Tomorrow I’ll see you again, to take my final leave of you.”
And upon these words, the baron left.
Milady had listened to this menacing tirade with a smile of disdain on her lips, but with rage in her heart.
Supper was served. Milady felt she must gather all her strength and resources. She didn’t know what might happen in the night that approached so menacingly, for dark clouds were rolling across the sky, and distant lightning portended a storm.
Toward ten o’clock, the storm broke. Milady felt some consolation in seeing nature mirror the turmoil in her heart. Thunder growled in the sky like an echo of the rage in her spirit. It seemed to her that the squall, as it bent the branches of the trees and tore away their leaves, also roared through her head; she howled like a hurricane, and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature, who, like her, seemed to cry out in despair.
All at once she heard a rap at the window, and in a flash of lightning, she saw a man’s face appear beyond the bars.
She ran to the window and opened it.
“Felton!” she cried. “I’m saved!”
“Yes!” said Felton. “But silence, silence! I need time to saw through these bars. Just make sure I can’t be seen through the grating in the door.”
“They’ve put a plank over the grating,” Milady said. “It’s proof that the Lord is on our side!”
“Good! God has blinded them!” Felton said.
“But what should I do?” asked Milady.
“Nothing, nothing—just shut the window. Go to bed, or even better, stay dressed but get under the covers. When I’m done here, I’ll knock on the window. Will you be able to follow me?”
“Oh, yes!”
“What about your wound?”
“It hurts, but it won’t stop me.”
“Then be ready the moment I signal.”
Milady shut the window, put out the lamp, and went, as Felton had suggested, to huddle in bed. Amid the groaning of the storm she heard the grinding of the file against the bars, and with every flash of lightning she saw the shadow of Felton against the sky.
She passed an hour unable to breathe, panting, cold sweat on her brow, her heart hammering in an agony of fear at every movement she heard from the corridor.
There are hours that last a year.
At the end of that hour, Felton rapped again.
Milady sprang from her bed and opened the window. Two bars were gone, leaving an opening large enough for a person to pass through.
“Are you ready?” Felton asked.
“Yes. What should I bring with me?”
“Money, if you have any.”
“Fortunately, they left me what I had.”
“All the better, for I’ve spent all mine in hiring a vessel.”
“Take this,” said Milady, putting a sack of the cardinal’s gold into Felton’s hands.
Felton dropped the sack to the foot of the wall. “Now,” he said, “are you ready to go?”
“I’m coming.”
Milady climbed up on a chair and passed her upper body through the window. She saw that the young man was suspended over the abyss by a ladder of rope. The void below terrified her, and for the first time, she was reminded that she was a woman.
“I was afraid of this,” said Felton.
“It’s nothing, it’s nothing,” Milady said. “I can climb down with my eyes closed.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Need you ask?”
“Put your hands together. Cross them—that’s right.”
Felton tied her wrists together with his handkerchief, and then over the handkerchief he looped a cord.
“What are you doing?” Milady asked, surprised.
“Put your arms around my neck, and don’t be afraid.”
“But I’ll make you lose your balance and we’ll fall to our death!” “Trust me; I’m a sailor.”
There wasn’t a second to lose. Milady put her arms around Felton’s neck and let herself slip out the window.
Felton began to climb slowly down, rung by rung. Despite the weight of their bodies, the gusts from the hurricane made them swing in the air.
All at once Felton stopped.
“What is it?” Milady asked.
“Quiet,” said Felton. “I hear footsteps.”
“We’ve been discovered!”
There was silence for a few moments, except for the wind. “No,” Felton said, “it’s all right.”
“But what was that noise?”
“It’s the patrol, making their rounds.”
“Where will they go?”
“Right below us.”
“We’ll be seen!”
“Not unless there’s a flash of lightning.”
“They’ll bump into the foot of the ladder.”
“Fortunately, it’s six feet too short.”
“Here they come! My God!”
“Silence!”
They hung there, motionless and breathless, twenty feet in the air, the whole time the soldiers passed beneath them, laughing and talking. It was a terrible moment for the fugitives.
The patrol passed: the sound of their steps receded and the murmur of their voices dwindled and died away.
“Now,” said Felton, “we’re safe.”
Milady let out her breath in a deep sigh and fainted.
Felton continued the descent. When he arrived at the bottom of the ladder and found no more support for his feet, he clung to the ropes by his hands alone. When he reached the bottom rung, he let himself down by the strength of his wrists until his feet touched the ground.
He bent over, picked up the sack of gold, and gripped its closed end between his teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms and set off briskly in the opposite direction from the patrol. Soon he left the path beneath the walls and climbed down across
the rocks. When he reached the edge of the sea, he whistled.
A similar signal replied, and five minutes later a boat appeared, rowed by four men.
The boat approached as close as it could to the shore, but it was too shallow to come in all the way. Felton went into the surging water up to his waist, unwilling to trust his precious burden to anyone else.
Though the storm had begun to abate, the sea was still violent. The little boat was tossed on the waves like a nutshell.
“To the sloop,” Felton ordered. “Lively, now!”
The four men plied their oars, but the sea was too rough for them to make much headway.
But every moment they were farther from the castle—that was the main thing. The night was very dark, and soon it was almost impossible to make out the shore from the boat, so it wasn’t likely anyone would be able to see the boat from shore.
A black shadow appeared to rise from the sea.
It was the sloop.
While the boat plowed through the waves with all the force its four rowers could muster, Felton untied the cord and then the handkerchief that bound Milady’s hands. When her hands were free, he scooped up some seawater and sprinkled it on her face.
Milady sighed and opened her eyes. “Where am I?” she said.
“Saved,” the young officer replied.
“Saved!” she cried. “Saved! Yes, there’s the sky, and here is the sea! I’m breathing the air of freedom. Ah! Thank you, Felton . . . Thank you.”
The young man pressed her to his heart.
“But what’s wrong with my hands?” Milady asked. “It feels like my wrists have been crushed in a vise.” She held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.
“I’m so sorry!” said Felton, looking at her beautiful hands and shaking his head with remorse.
“No, no, it’s nothing!” Milady cried. “I remember now.”
She looked around, as if searching for something.
“It’s here,” Felton said, nudging the sack of gold with his foot.
They neared the sloop. The sailor on watch hailed the boat, and the boat replied.
“What ship is that?” asked Milady.
“The one I’ve hired for you.”
“Where will it take me?”
The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED) Page 63