Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series)

by Alexandre Dumas

  “There will be, in all times and in all countries, particularly if religious divisions exist in those countries, fanatics who ask nothing better than to become martyrs. Ay, and observe—it just occurs to me that the Puritans are furious against Buckingham, and their preachers designate him as the Antichrist.”

  “Well?” said Milady.

  “Well,” continued the cardinal, in an indifferent tone, “the only thing to be sought for at this moment is some woman, handsome, young, and clever, who has cause of quarrel with the duke. The duke has had many affairs of gallantry; and if he has fostered his amours by promises of eternal constancy, he must likewise have sown the seeds of hatred by his eternal infidelities.”

  “No doubt,” said Milady, coolly, “such a woman may be found.”

  “Well, such a woman, who would place the knife of Jacques Clement or of Ravaillac in the hands of a fanatic, would save France.”

  “Yes; but she would then be the accomplice of an assassination.”

  “Were the accomplices of Ravaillac or of Jacques Clement ever known?”

  “No; for perhaps they were too high-placed for anyone to dare look for them where they were. The Palace of Justice would not be burned down for everybody, monseigneur.”

  “You think, then, that the fire at the Palace of Justice was not caused by chance?” asked Richelieu, in the tone with which he would have put a question of no importance.

  “I, monseigneur?” replied Milady. “I think nothing; I quote a fact, that is all. Only I say that if I were named Madame de Montpensier, or the Queen Marie de Médicis, I should use less precautions than I take, being simply called Milady Clarik.”

  “That is just,” said Richelieu. “What do you require, then?”

  “I require an order which would ratify beforehand all that I should think proper to do for the greatest good of France.”

  “But in the first place, this woman I have described must be found who is desirous of avenging herself upon the duke.”

  “She is found,” said Milady.

  “Then the miserable fanatic must be found who will serve as an instrument of God’s justice.”

  “He will be found.”

  “Well,” said the cardinal, “then it will be time to claim the order which you just now required.”

  “Your Eminence is right,” replied Milady; “and I have been wrong in seeing in the mission with which you honor me anything but that which it really is—that is to say, to announce to his Grace, on the part of your Eminence, that you are acquainted with the different disguises by means of which he succeeded in approaching the queen during the fête given by Madame the Constable; that you have proofs of the interview granted at the Louvre by the queen to a certain Italian astrologer who was no other than the Duke of Buckingham; that you have ordered a little romance of a satirical nature to be written upon the adventures of Amiens, with a plan of the gardens in which those adventures took place, and portraits of the actors who figured in them; that Montague is in the Bastille, and that the torture may make him say things he remembers, and even things he has forgotten; that you possess a certain letter from Madame de Chevreuse, found in his Grace’s lodging, which singularly compromises not only her who wrote it, but her in whose name it was written. Then, if he persists, notwithstanding all this—as that is, as I have said, the limit of my mission—I shall have nothing to do but to pray God to work a miracle for the salvation of France. That is it, is it not, monseigneur, and I shall have nothing else to do?”

  “That is it,” replied the cardinal, dryly.

  “And now,” said Milady, without appearing to remark the change of the duke’s tone toward her—“now that I have received the instructions of your Eminence as concerns your enemies, Monseigneur will permit me to say a few words to him of mine?”

  “Have you enemies, then?” asked Richelieu.

  “Yes, monseigneur, enemies against whom you owe me all your support, for I made them by serving your Eminence.”

  “Who are they?” replied the duke.

  “In the first place, there is a little intrigante named Bonacieux.”

  “She is in the prison of Nantes.”

  “That is to say, she was there,” replied Milady; “but the queen has obtained an order from the king by means of which she has been conveyed to a convent.”

  “To a convent?” said the duke.

  “Yes, to a convent.”

  “And to which?”

  “I don’t know; the secret has been well kept.”

  “But I will know!”

  “And your Eminence will tell me in what convent that woman is?”

  “I can see nothing inconvenient in that,” said the cardinal.

  “Well, now I have an enemy much more to be dreaded by me than this little Madame Bonacieux.”

  “Who is that?”

  “Her lover.”

  “What is his name?”

  “Oh, your Eminence knows him well,” cried Milady, carried away by her anger. “He is the evil genius of both of us. It is he who in an encounter with your Eminence’s Guards decided the victory in favor of the king’s Musketeers; it is he who gave three desperate wounds to De Wardes, your emissary, and who caused the affair of the diamond studs to fail; it is he who, knowing it was I who had Madame Bonacieux carried off, has sworn my death.”

  “Ah, ah!” said the cardinal, “I know of whom you speak.”

  “I mean that miserable D’Artagnan.”

  “He is a bold fellow,” said the cardinal.

  “And it is exactly because he is a bold fellow that he is the more to be feared.”

  “I must have,” said the duke, “a proof of his connection with Buckingham.”

  “A proof?” cried Milady; “I will have ten.”

  “Well, then, it becomes the simplest thing in the world; get me that proof, and I will send him to the Bastille.”

  “So far good, monseigneur; but afterwards?”

  “When once in the Bastille, there is no afterward!” said the cardinal, in a low voice. “Ah, pardieu!” continued he, “if it were as easy for me to get rid of my enemy as it is easy to get rid of yours, and if it were against such people you required impunity—”

  “Monseigneur,” replied Milady, “a fair exchange. Life for life, man for man; give me one, I will give you the other.”

  “I don’t know what you mean, nor do I even desire to know what you mean,” replied the cardinal; “but I wish to please you, and see nothing out of the way in giving you what you demand with respect to so infamous a creature—the more so as you tell me this paltry D’Artagnan is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.”

  “An infamous scoundrel, monseigneur, a scoundrel!”

  “Give me paper, a quill, and some ink, then,” said the cardinal.

  “Here they are, monseigneur.”

  There was a moment of silence, which proved that the cardinal was employed in seeking the terms in which he should write the note, or else in writing it. Athos, who had not lost a word of the conversation, took his two companions by the hand, and led them to the other end of the room.

  “Well,” said Porthos, “what do you want, and why do you not let us listen to the end of the conversation?”

  “Hush!” said Athos, speaking in a low voice. “We have heard all it was necessary we should hear; besides, I don’t prevent you from listening, but I must be gone.”

  “You must be gone!” said Porthos; “and if the cardinal asks for you, what answer can we make?”

  “You will not wait till he asks; you will speak first, and tell him that I am gone on the lookout, because certain expressions of our host have given me reason to think the road is not safe. I will say two words about it to the cardinal’s esquire likewise. The rest concerns myself; don’t be uneasy about that.”

  “Be prudent, Athos,” said Aramis.

  “Be easy on that head,” replied Athos; “you know I am cool enough.”

  Porthos and Aramis resumed their places by the st
ovepipe. As to Athos, he went out without any mystery, took his horse, which was tied with those of his friends to the fastenings of the shutters, in four words convinced the attendant of the necessity of a vanguard for their return, carefully examined the priming of his pistols, drew his sword, and took, like a forlorn hope, the road to the camp.

  45

  A CONJUGAL SCENE

  As Athos had foreseen, it was not long before the cardinal came down. He opened the door of the room in which the Musketeers were, and found Porthos playing an earnest game at dice with Aramis. He cast a rapid glance round the room, and perceived that one of his men was missing.

  “What has become of Monsieur Athos?” asked he.

  “Monseigneur,” replied Porthos, “he has gone as a scout, on account of some words of our host, which made him believe the road was not safe.”

  “And you, what have you done, Monsieur Porthos?”

  “I have won five pistoles of Aramis.”

  “Well; now will you return with me?”

  “We are at your Eminence’s orders.”

  “To horse, then, gentlemen; for it is getting late.”

  The attendant was at the door, holding the cardinal’s horse by the bridle. At a short distance a group of two men and three horses appeared in the shade. These were the two men who were to conduct Milady to the fort of the Point, and superintend her embarkation.

  The attendant confirmed to the cardinal what the two Musketeers had already said with respect to Athos. The cardinal made an approving gesture, and retraced his route with the same precautions he had used in coming.

  Let us leave him to follow the road to the camp protected by his esquire and the two Musketeers, and return to Athos.

  For a hundred paces he maintained the speed at which he started; but when out of sight he turned his horse to the right, made a circuit, and came back within twenty paces of a high hedge to watch the passage of the little troop. Having recognized the laced hats of his companions and the golden fringe of the cardinal’s cloak, he waited till the horsemen had turned the angle of the road, and having lost sight of them, he returned at a gallop to the inn, which was opened to him without hesitation.

  The host recognized him.

  “My officer,” said Athos, “has forgotten to give a piece of very important information to the lady, and has sent me back to repair his forgetfulness.”

  “Go up,” said the host; “she is still in her chamber.”

  Athos availed himself of the permission, ascended the stairs with his lightest step, gained the landing, and through the open door perceived Milady putting on her hat.

  He entered the chamber and closed the door behind him. At the noise he made in pushing the bolt, Milady turned round.

  Athos was standing before the door, enveloped in his cloak, with his hat pulled down over his eyes. On seeing this figure, mute and immovable as a statute, Milady was frightened.

  “Who are you, and what do you want?” cried she.

  “Humph,” murmured Athos, “it is certainly she!”

  And letting fall his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced toward Milady.

  “Do you know me, madame?” said he.

  Milady made one step forward, and then drew back as if she had seen a serpent.

  “So far, well,” said Athos. “I perceive you know me.”

  “The Comte de la Fère!” murmured Milady, becoming exceedingly pale, and drawing back till the wall prevented her from going any farther.

  “Yes, Milady,” replied Athos, “the Comte de la Fère in person, who comes expressly from the other world to have the pleasure of paying you a visit. Sit down, madame, and let us talk, as the cardinal said.”

  Milady, under the influence of inexpressible terror, sat down without uttering a word.

  “You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth!” said Athos. “Your power is great, I know; but you also know that with the help of God men have often conquered the most terrible demons. You have once before thrown yourself in my path. I thought I had crushed you, madame; but either I was deceived or hell has resuscitated you!”

  Milady at these words, which recalled frightful remembrances, hung down her head with a suppressed groan.

  “Yes, hell has resuscitated you,” continued Athos. “Hell has made you rich, hell has given you another name, hell has almost made you another face; but it has neither effaced the stains from your soul nor the brand from your body.”

  Milady arose as if moved by a powerful spring, and her eyes flashed lightning. Athos remained sitting.

  “You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de la Fère, as the name Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil. Was it not so you were called when your honored brother married us? Our position is truly a strange one,” continued Athos, laughing. “We have only lived up to the present time because we believed each other dead, and because a remembrance is less oppressive than a living creature, though a remembrance is sometimes devouring.”

  “But,” said Milady, in a hollow, faint voice, “what brings you back to me, and what do you want with me?”

  “I wish to tell you that though remaining invisible to your eyes, I have not lost sight of you.”

  “You know what I have done?”

  “I can relate to you, day by day, your actions from your entrance into the service of the cardinal to this evening.”

  A smile of incredulity passed over the pale lips of Milady.

  “Listen! It was you who cut off the two diamond studs from the shoulder of the Duke of Buckingham; it was you who had Madame Bonacieux carried off; it was you who, in love with De Wardes and thinking to pass the night with him, opened the door to Monsieur d‘Artagnan; it was you who, believing that De Wardes had deceived you, wished to have him killed by his rival; it was you who, when this rival had discovered your infamous secret, wished to have him killed in his turn by two assassins, whom you sent in pursuit of him; it was you who, finding the balls had missed their mark, sent poisoned wine with a forged letter, to make your victim believe that that wine came from his friends. In short, it was you who have but now in this chamber, seated in this chair I now fill, made an engagement with Cardinal Richelieu to cause the Duke of Buckingham to be assassinated, in exchange for the promise he has made you to allow you to assassinate D’Artagnan.”

  Milady was livid.

  “You must be Satan!” cried she.

  “Perhaps,” said Athos; “but at all events listen well to this. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or cause him to be assassinated—I care very little about that! I don’t know him. Besides, he is an Englishman. But do not touch with the tip of your finger a single hair of D’Artagnan, who is a faithful friend whom I love and defend, or I swear to you by the head of my father the crime which you shall have endeavored to commit, or shall have committed, shall be the last.”

  “Monsieur d‘Artagnan has cruelly insulted me,” said Milady, in a hollow tone; “Monsieur d’Artagnan shall die!”

  “Indeed! Is it possible to insult you, madame?” said Athos, laughing; “he has insulted you, and he shall die!”

  “He shall die!” replied Milady; “she first, and he afterward.”

  Athos was seized with a kind of vertigo. The sight of this creature, who had nothing of the woman about her, recalled awful remembrances. He thought how one day, in a less dangerous situation than the one in which he was now placed, he had already endeavored to sacrifice her to his honor. His desire for blood returned, burning his brain and pervading his frame like a raging fever; he arose in his turn, reached his hand to his belt, drew forth a pistol, and cocked it.

  Milady, pale as a corpse, endeavored to cry out; but her swollen tongue could utter no more than a hoarse sound which had nothing human in it and resembled the rattle of a wild beast. Motionless against the dark tapestry, with her hair in disorder, she appeared like a horrid image of terror.

  Athos slowly raised his pistol, stretched out
his arm so that the weapon almost touched Milady’s forehead, and then, in a voice the more terrible from having the supreme calmness of a fixed resolution, “Madame,” said he, “you will this instant deliver to me the paper the cardinal signed; or upon my soul, I will blow your brains out.”

  With another man, Milady might have preserved some doubt; but she knew Athos. Nevertheless, she remained motionless.

  “You have one second to decide,” said he.

  Milady saw by the contraction of his countenance that the trigger was about to be pulled; she reached her hand quickly to her bosom, drew out a paper, and held it toward Athos.

  “Take it,” said she, “and be accursed!”

  Athos took the paper, returned the pistol to his belt, approached the lamp to be assured that it was the paper, unfolded it, and read:

  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

  “And now,” said Athos, resuming his cloak and putting on his hat, “now that I have drawn your teeth, viper, bite if you can.”

  And he left the chamber without once looking behind him.

  At the door he found the two men and the spare horse which they held.

  “Gentlemen,” said he, “Monseigneur’s order is, you know, to conduct that woman, without losing time, to the fort of the Point, and never to leave her till she is on board.”

  As these words agreed wholly with the order they had received, they bowed their heads in sign of assent.

  With regard to Athos, he leaped lightly into the saddle and set out at full gallop; only instead of following the road, he went across the fields, urging his horse to the utmost and stopping occasionally to listen.

  In one of those halts he heard the steps of several horses on the road. He had no doubt it was the cardinal and his escort. He immediately made a new point in advance, rubbed his horse down with some heath and leaves of trees, and placed himself across the road, about two hundred paces from the camp.