The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas - [Full Version] - (ANNOTATED)

by Alexandre Dumas

  But the abbess seemed content to listen and smile without saying a word. However, Milady could see how much she enjoyed this sort of talk, so she went on—only now she dropped in the name of the cardinal.

  Her problem was, she didn’t know if the abbess was a Royalist or a Cardinalist, so she steered a prudent middle course. But the abbess, for her part, maintained a reserve even more prudent, contenting herself with bowing her head respectfully every time her visitor pronounced the name of His Eminence.

  Milady began to think she was going to be deathly bored in this convent. She decided to take a little risk to see how far she could go. To test the limits of the good abbess’s discretion, she began to cast aspersions on the cardinal—vague at first, then more specific, relating the amours of the minister with Madame de Combalet, Marion Delorme, and various other femmes galantes.

  The abbess listened attentively, smiled, and showed a bit more life.

  Good, Milady thought, she likes this kind of talk. If she is a Cardinalist, at least she’s not fanatical about it.

  She passed on to the cardinal’s persecutions of his enemies. The abbess only crossed herself, without indicating either approval or disapproval.

  This confirmed Milady in her opinion that the abbess was more Royalist than Cardinalist. She continued in the same vein, speaking of ever-greater outrages.

  “I know very little of such things,” said the abbess at length, “but despite our distance from Court, and our position apart from worldly affairs, we have among us sad examples of what you’re talking about. One of our pensioners in particular has suffered a great deal of persecution at the hands of Monsieur le Cardinal.”

  “One of your pensioners!” said Milady. “Oh, my God! The poor woman, how I pity her.”

  “With good reason, for there’s much to pity: imprisonment, threats, mistreatment—she’s suffered it all. But who knows?” the abbess said. “The cardinal may have good reason for these acts. Though she seems a perfect angel, we mustn’t judge people by appearances.”

  Who knows indeed? Milady said to herself. I seem to be on to something here. Let’s follow this up.

  She assumed an expression of perfect candor. “Alas!” she said. “So they say. We’re told we shouldn’t trust appearances, but what can we believe in, if not the most beautiful works of the Lord? As for me, I may be fooled all my life, but I’ll always trust a person whose face inspires me with sympathy.”

  “So you would be tempted to believe this young woman is innocent?” asked the abbess.

  “Monsieur le Cardinal doesn’t punish only for crimes,” Milady said. “There are certain virtues he pursues more severely than some offenses.”

  “Permit me, Madame, to express my surprise,” said the abbess.

  “At what?” Milady asked ingenuously.

  “Well, at the language you use.”

  “What do you find so surprising in my language?” Milady asked, smiling.

  “You’re the cardinal’s friend, since he sent you here, and yet . . .”

  “And yet I speak ill of him,” Milady said, finishing the superior’s thought.

  “At least, you don’t speak very well of him.”

  “That’s because I’m not his friend,” Milady sighed, “but his victim.”

  “But, this letter that recommends you to me . . . ?”

  “Is an order for me to confine myself in a sort of prison, until I’m removed by one of his creatures.”

  “But why haven’t you fled?”

  “Where would I go? Do you think there’s anywhere on earth the cardinal can’t reach, if he troubles to reach out his hand? If I were a man, I might try for it, but a woman? What can a woman do? This young pensioner of yours, has she tried to flee?”

  “No, that’s true. But it’s another thing with her, as I think she stays in France for love.”

  “Then,” Milady sighed, “if she’s in love, she’s not completely miserable.”

  “So in you,” the abbess said, with a livelier interest, “I see another poor persecuted woman?”

  “Alas, yes,” said Milady.

  The abbess paused and regarded Milady with uneasiness, as if struck with a new idea. “You’re not an enemy of our holy faith?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Me?” said Milady. “Me, a Protestant? Oh, no—on the contrary! I swear to God who hears us that I’m a fervent Catholic.”

  “Then don’t worry, Madame,” said the abbess, smiling. “This house won’t be a very hard prison, and we’ll do all we can to make you cherish your captivity here. Moreover, you’ll find here that other persecuted young woman—the victim, no doubt, of some court intrigue. She is amiable and well-mannered.”

  “What is her name?”

  “She was commended to my care by someone of very high rank under the name of Kitty. I haven’t tried to learn her real name.”

  “Kitty!” Milady cried. “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes, Madame—so we were told. Do you know her?”

  Milady smiled to herself at the idea that the young woman might be her old chambermaid. Then it evoked a wave of frustrated anger, and the desire for revenge distorted Milady’s features—but, woman of a hundred faces, she immediately recovered the calm and benevolent expression she’d momentarily lost.

  “And when could I see this young lady, for whom I already feel such great sympathy?” Milady asked.

  “Why, this evening,” said the abbess, “or even this afternoon. But you’ve been traveling for four days, as you told me yourself, and you’ve been up since five this morning; I’m sure you’d like a rest. Go to bed and sleep, and we’ll call you at dinner time.”

  Milady could very easily have done without sleep, as her mind, always avid for intrigue, was stimulated by the idea of a new adventure, but she nonetheless decided to accept the superior’s offer. During the past two weeks she had been torn by so many different emotions that even if her body could have fought off further fatigue, her soul was in need of repose.

  So she took her leave of the abbess and went to bed, rocked softly to sleep by the ideas of revenge brought to mind by the name of Kitty. She recalled the cardinal’s promise of almost unlimited license if she was successful in her mission. She had succeeded, and revenge on d’Artagnan was now within her power.

  Only one thing alarmed Milady: the memory of her husband, the Comte de La Fère, whom she had thought dead, and whom she’d found again in Athos, the best friend of d’Artagnan.

  However, if he was d’Artagnan’s friend, he must have helped him assist the queen in thwarting His Eminence’s plans; if he was d’Artagnan’s friend, he was the cardinal’s enemy, and she would doubtless succeed in including him in the vengeance that would destroy the young musketeer.

  All these hopes were sweet visions to Milady, and, lulled by them, she soon fell asleep.

  She was awakened by a soft voice at the foot of her bed. She opened her eyes and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman with blond hair and a delicate complexion, who regarded her with a look of benevolent curiosity.

  This young woman’s face was completely unknown to her. They examined each other carefully, while exchanging the customary compliments. Both were very attractive, though their styles of beauty were quite different, and Milady smiled as she recognized that the young woman possessed nothing like her grand air and aristocratic bearing—though it’s true the young woman was dressed in the habit of a novice nun, which didn’t help her much in that sort of comparison.

  The abbess introduced them to each other, and having completed that formality, returned to her religious duties, leaving the two young women alone.

  The novice, seeing Milady still in bed, was about to follow the superior, but Milady stopped her. “What, Madame?” she said. “We’ve barely met, and already you want to deprive me of your company? I must confess, I’ve been counting on you to help me pass the time here.”

  “No, Madame,” the novice replied. “I simply thought I might have chosen a bad tim
e; you were asleep, you must be tired.”

  “Well,” Milady said, “what’s the best thing a sleeping person can ask for? A happy awakening. You’ve given me that, so please allow me a chance to enjoy it.” And taking the novice’s hand, she drew her toward a chair beside the bed.

  The novice sat. “Dear God, how miserable I’ve been,” she said. “I’ve been here more than six months, without the shadow of a diversion. Now you arrive, sure to provide me with some charming company, just when, in all probability, I’m about to leave the convent!”

  “Really! You’re leaving soon?” Milady said.

  “At least, I hope so,” said the novice, with a joyful expression she didn’t try to disguise.

  “I heard that you’ve suffered at the hands of the cardinal,” continued Milady, “which would have been another reason for sympathy between us.”

  “So what I heard from the good mother is true, that you’ve also been a victim of that awful cardinal?”

  “Hush!” said Milady. “We shouldn’t talk about him that way, not even here. All my troubles started from having said no more than you’ve said, to a woman I thought was my friend—and who betrayed me. Are you also the victim of treachery?”

  “No,” said the novice, “rather of my devotion to a woman I loved, for whom I would have given my life, and for whom I still would.”

  “And who has abandoned you, is that it?”

  “I was unjust enough to think so, but in the last few days I’ve received proof to the contrary, thank God! I hated to think she might have forgotten about me. But you don’t appear to be under any constraint, Madame,” continued the novice. “If you want to flee, then surely you can.”

  “Where would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part of France I don’t know, and where I’ve never been before?”

  “Oh!” cried the novice. “As to friends, I’m sure you’d have them wherever you went—you’re so beautiful, and seem so good!”

  Milady softened her smile into an angelic expression. “That doesn’t prevent me from feeling alone and persecuted.”

  “Listen to me,” said the novice. “We must trust in heaven. There always comes a time when the good you’ve done pleads your cause before God. And maybe it’s a lucky thing you met with me because, though I’m humble and powerless, I have powerful friends—and if they help me to leave here, afterward they may be able to help you.”

  “Oh, when I said I was alone,” Milady said, hoping to draw the novice out by speaking of herself, “it’s not because I lack friends in high places, it’s because these friends are themselves afraid of the cardinal. The queen herself doesn’t dare to oppose that terrible minister. I have proof that Her Majesty, good-hearted though she is, has more than once had to abandon to His Eminence’s persecution people who had served her.”

  “Believe me, Madame, the queen may seem to have abandoned these people, but we shouldn’t be fooled by appearances. The more they are persecuted, the more she thinks of them—and when they least expect it, she shows she remembers them.”

  “Yes, you’re right,” said Milady. “The queen is so good.”

  “You must know her, to talk about her this way!” the novice said excitedly. “Our queen, so lovely and noble!”

  “That is to say,” replied Milady, driven back into her entrenchments, “I don’t have the honor to be acquainted with her personally, but I know a number of her most intimate friends: I’ve met Monsieur de Putanges; I knew Monsieur de Jars in England; I know Monsieur de Tréville . . .”

  “Monsieur de Tréville!” said the novice. “You know Monsieur de Tréville?”

  “Yes—very well, in fact.”

  “The Captain of the King’s Musketeers?”

  “Himself.”

  “Why, then, we practically know each other,” cried the novice. “We’re almost friends already. If you know Monsieur de Tréville, you must have visited his hôtel?”

  “Often!” said Milady who, having started down this path, and seeing her deceit successful, decided to follow it to its end.

  “While there, did you meet any of his musketeers?”

  “All the ones he receives most often,” replied Milady, for whom this conversation was beginning to take on real interest.

  “Name some of those you know and you’ll see that they’re my friends.”

  “Well,” said Milady, somewhat embarrassed, “I know Monsieur de Louvigny, Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Férrusac . . .”

  The novice let Milady speak, but once she stopped, she said, “Don’t you know a gentleman named Athos?”

  Milady went as pale as the sheets she was lying on and, mistress of herself though she was, she couldn’t stop herself from crying out. She seized the novice’s hand and devoured her with her eyes.

  “What’s wrong? Good God,” asked the poor woman, “have I said anything to hurt you?”

  “No, it’s just that the name struck me, because . . . I, too, know that gentleman, and it seemed strange to find someone else who knew him as well.”

  “I do know him! And not just him, but also his friends, Messieurs Porthos and Aramis.”

  “Really! Why, I know them, too!” cried Milady, who felt a chill enter her heart.

  “Well, if you know them, you know what good and loyal friends they are. If you need help, why not ask them?”

  “What . . . what I mean is,” stammered Milady, “that I’m not really all that close with them. I know them from having heard one of their friends talk so much about them—a Monsieur d’Artagnan.”

  “You know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the novice. It was now her turn to seize Milady’s hand and devour her with her eyes.

  Then, noticing the strange expression on Milady’s face, she said, “Pardon me, Madame, but in what sense do you know him?”

  “Well,” said Milady, unsure of herself for once, “well . . . in the sense of a friend.”

  “You aren’t telling me the truth, Madame,” said the novice. “You’ve been his mistress!”

  Then Milady knew. “No, Madame,” she said, “it’s you who’ve been his.”

  “Me!” said the novice.

  “Yes, you. I know you now: you are Madame Bonacieux.”

  The young woman recoiled in surprise and terror.

  “No use denying it,” Milady said. “You are, aren’t you?”

  “Well . . . yes, Madame! I love him,” the novice said. “Are we rivals?”

  Milady’s face lit with such a fierce flame that, under any other circumstances, Madame Bonacieux would have fled in fear—but she was too wrapped up in her own jealousy.

  “Tell me!” said Madame Bonacieux, with surprising intensity. “Madame! Are you, or have you been his mistress?”

  “Oh, no!” cried Milady, in a tone that left no doubt of its truthfulness. “Never! Never!”

  “I believe you,” said Madame Bonacieux. “But why did you react that way?”

  “Don’t you understand?” said Milady, who was herself again, and had regained her presence of mind.

  “How can I understand? I know nothing.”

  “Can’t you understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence?”

  “Really?”

  “Don’t you see that I know everything? Your abduction from that little house in Saint-Germain, his despair and that of his friends, their search, so useless up to this moment! How could I not be astonished when, all unsuspecting, I find you in front of me—you, of whom we’ve so often spoken together—you, whom he loves with all his soul, and whom I’ve learned to love before even meeting you! Ah, dear Constance, I’ve found you! Here you are at last!”

  And Milady extended her arms to Madame Bonacieux, who was convinced by what she’d said. She saw this woman, whom a moment before she’d believed was her rival, as nothing more than a sincere and devoted friend.

  “Oh, forgive me! Forgive me!” she cried, burying her face in Milady’s shoulder. “I love him so!”r />
  The two women embraced each other for a long moment. Certainly, if Milady had been as strong as her hatred, Madame Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But since Milady couldn’t strangle her, she smiled upon her.

  “Oh, you little dear! You dear, sweet thing!” Milady said. “How happy I am to see you! Let me look at you.” Milady ran her eyes over every inch of Madame Bonacieux. “Yes, it’s you—no doubt about it. I should have recognized you immediately, after everything he’s said.”

  The poor young woman had no idea what frightful cruelties were brewing behind that brow so pure, behind those eyes so brilliant, in which she read nothing but friendship and compassion.

  “Then you know what I’ve suffered,” said Madame Bonacieux, “since he’s told you what he’s suffered—but to suffer for him is happiness.”

  “Yes, that is happiness,” Milady replied mechanically.

  She was thinking of something else.

  “And now,” continued Madame Bonacieux, “my trial is coming to its end. Tomorrow, maybe even tonight, I’ll see him again, and then what’s past will no longer exist.”

  “Tonight? Tomorrow?” asked Milady, jolted from her reverie by these words. “What do you mean? You expect news about him?”

  “I expect him personally.”

  “D’Artagnan—here?”

  “Himself.”

  “But that’s impossible! He’s at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. He can’t return to Paris before the city is taken.”

  “You may think so, but is anything impossible to my d’Artagnan? That noble, loyal gentleman!”

  “I just can’t believe you!”

  “Well, read, then!” Madame Bonacieux said, bursting with joy and pride. And the unfortunate young woman presented a letter to Milady.