“How unfortunate I am!” said she; “I have been here six months without the shadow of recreation. You arrive, and your presence was likely to afford me delightful company; yet I expect, in all probability, to quit the convent at any moment.”

“How, you are going soon?” asked Milady.

“At least I hope so,” said the novice, with an expression of joy which she made no effort to disguise.

“I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,” continued Milady; “that would have been another motive for sympathy between us.”

“What I have heard, then, from our good mother is true; you have likewise been a victim of that wicked priest.”

“Hush!” said Milady; “let us not, even here, speak thus of him. All my misfortunes arise from my having said nearly what you have said before a woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me. Are you also the victim of a treachery?”

“No,” said the novice, “but of my devotion—of a devotion to a woman I loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would give it still.”

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

“I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank God—for it would have cost me very dear to think she had forgotten me. But you, madame, you appear to be free,” continued the novice; “and if you were inclined to fly it only rests with yourself to do so.”

“Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been before?”

“Oh,” cried the novice, “as to friends, you would have them wherever you want, you appear so good and are so beautiful!”

“That does not prevent,” replied Milady, softening her smile so as to give it an angelic expression, “my being alone or being persecuted.”

“Hear me,” said the novice; “we must trust in heaven. There always comes a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God; and see, perhaps it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I am, that you have met with me, for if I leave this place, well—I have powerful friends, who, after having exerted themselves on my account, may also exert themselves for you.”

“Oh, when I said I was alone,” said Milady, hoping to make the novice talk by talking of herself, “it is not for want of friends in high places; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal. The queen herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister. I have proof that her Majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more than once been obliged to abandon to the anger of his Eminence persons who had served her.”

“Trust me, madame; the queen may appear to have abandoned those persons, but we must not put faith in appearances. The more they are persecuted, the more she thinks of them; and often, when they least expect it, they have proof of a kind remembrance.”

“Alas!” said Milady, “I believe so; the queen is so good!”

“Oh, you know her, then, that lovely and noble queen, that you speak of her thus!” cried the novice, with enthusiasm.

“That is to say,” replied Milady, driven into her entrenchment, “that I have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number of her most intimate friends. I am acquainted with Monsieur de Putange; I met Monsieur Dujart in England; I know Monsieur de Tréville.”

“Monsieur de Tréville!” exclaimed the novice, “do you know Monsieur de Tréville?”

“Yes, perfectly well—intimately even.”

“The captain of the king’s Musketeers?”

“The captain of the king’s Musketeers.”

“Why, then, only see!” cried the novice; “we shall soon be well acquainted, almost friends. If you know Monsieur de Tréville, you must have visited him?”

“Often!” said Milady, who, having entered this track, and perceiving that falsehood succeeded, was determined to follow it to the end.

“With him, then, you must have seen some of his Musketeers?”

“All those he is in the habit of receiving!” replied Milady, for whom this conversation began to have a real interest.

“Name a few of those whom you know, and you will see if they are my friends.”

“Well!” said Milady, embarrassed, “I know Monsieur de Louvigny, Monsieur de Courtivron, Monsieur de Ferussac.”

The novice let her speak, then seeing that she paused, she said, “Don’t you know a gentleman named Athos?”

Milady became as pale as the sheets in which she was lying, and mistress as she was of herself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing the hand of the novice, and devouring her with looks.

“What is the matter? Good God!” asked the poor woman, “have I said anything that has wounded you?”

“No; but the name struck me, because I also have known that gentleman, and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears to know him well.”

“Oh, yes, very well; not only him, but some of his friends, Messieurs Porthos and Aramis!”

“Indeed! you know them likewise? I know them,” cried Milady, who began to feel a chill penetrate her heart.

“Well, if you know them, you know that they are good and free companions. Why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of help?”

“That is to say,” stammered Milady, “I am not really very intimate with any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends, Monsieur d’Artagnan, say a great deal about them.”

“You know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the novice, in her turn seizing the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.

Then remarking the strange expression of Milady’s countenance, she said, “Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?”

“Why,” replied Milady, embarrassed, “why, by the title of friend.”

“You deceive me, madame,” said the novice; “you have been his mistress!”

“It is you who have been his mistress, madame!” cried Milady, in her turn.

“I?” said the novice.

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

The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.

“Oh, do not deny it! Answer!” continued Milady.

“Well, yes, madame,” said the novice, “Are we rivals?”

The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but she was absorbed by jealousy.

“Speak, madame!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she might not have been believed capable. “Have you been, or are you, his mistress?”

“Oh, no!” cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her truth. “Never, never!”

“I believe you,” said Mme. Bonacieux; “but why, then, did you cry out so?”

“Do you not understand?” said Milady, who had already overcome her agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.

“How can I understand? I know nothing.”

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

“Truly?”

“Do you not perceive that I know all—your abduction from the little house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face—you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had seen you! Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at last!”

And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant before she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.

“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of Milady. “Pardon me, I love him so much!”

These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace. Certainly, if Milady’s strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme. Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But not being able to stifle her, she smiled upon her.

“Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!” said Milady. “How delighted I am to have found you! Let me look at you!” and while saying these words, she absolutely devoured her by her looks. “Oh, yes it is you indeed! From what he has told me, I know you now. I recognize you perfectly.”

The poor young woman could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes in which she read nothing but interest and compassion.

“Then you know what I have suffered,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “since he has told you what he has suffered; but to suffer for him is happiness.”

Milady replied mechanically, “Yes, that is happiness.” She was thinking of something else.

“And then,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “my punishment is drawing to a close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see him again; and then the past will no longer exist.”

“This evening?” asked Milady, roused from her reverie by these words. “What do you mean? Do you expect news from him?”

“I expect himself.”

“Himself? D’Artagnan here?”

“Himself!”

“But that’s impossible! He is at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. He will not return till after the taking of the city.”

“Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my D’Artagnan, the noble and loyal gentleman?”

“Oh, I cannot believe you!”

“Well, read, then!” said the unhappy young woman, in the excess of her pride and joy, presenting a letter to Milady.

“The writing of Madame de Chevreuse!” said Milady to herself. “Ah, I always thought there was some secret understanding in that quarter!” And she greedily read the following few lines:

MY DEAR CHILD, Hold yourself ready. _Our friend_ will see you soon, and he will only see you to release you from that imprisonment in which your safety required you should be concealed. Prepare, then, for your departure, and never despair of us. Our charming Gascon has just proved himself as brave and faithful as ever. Tell him that certain parties are grateful for the warning he has given.

“Yes, yes,” said Milady; “the letter is precise. Do you know what that warning was?”

“No, I only suspect he has warned the queen against some fresh machinations of the cardinal.”

“Yes, that’s it, no doubt!” said Milady, returning the letter to Mme. Bonacieux, and letting her head sink pensively upon her bosom.

At that moment they heard the gallop of a horse.

“Oh!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, darting to the window, “can it be he?”

Milady remained still in bed, petrified by surprise; so many unexpected things happened to her all at once that for the first time she was at a loss.

“He, he!” murmured she; “can it be he?” And she remained in bed with her eyes fixed.

“Alas, no!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “it is a man I don’t know, although he seems to be coming here. Yes, he checks his pace; he stops at the gate; he rings.”

Milady sprang out of bed.

“You are sure it is not he?” said she.

“Yes, yes, very sure!”

“Perhaps you did not see well.”

“Oh, if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I should know _him!_”

Milady was dressing herself all the time.

“Yes, he has entered.”

“It is for you or me!”

“My God, how agitated you seem!”

“Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal.”

“Hush!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “somebody is coming.”

Immediately the door opened, and the superior entered.

“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of Milady.

“Yes,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants me?”

“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”

“And who wishes to speak with me?”

“Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne.”

“Then let him come in, if you please.”

“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Can it be bad news?”

“I fear it.”

“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.”

“_Permit_ you? I _beseech_ you.”

The superior and Mme. Bonacieux retired.

Milady remained alone, with her eyes fixed upon the door. An instant later, the jingling of spurs was heard upon the stairs, steps drew near, the door opened, and a man appeared.

Milady uttered a cry of joy; this man was the Comte de Rochefort—the demoniacal tool of his Eminence.

Chapter LXII. TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS

Ah,” cried Milady and Rochefort together, “it is you!”

“Yes, it is I.”

“And you come?” asked Milady.

“From La Rochelle; and you?”

“From England.”

“Buckingham?”

“Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him.”

“Ah,” said Rochefort, with a smile; “this is a fortunate chance—one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?”

“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”

“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you.”

“I only arrived yesterday.”

“And what have you been doing since yesterday?”

“I have not lost my time.”

“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

“Do you know whom I have encountered here?”

“No.”

“Guess.”

“How can I?”

“That young woman whom the queen took out of prison.”

“The mistress of that fellow D’Artagnan?”

“Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was unacquainted.”

“Well, well,” said Rochefort, “here is a chance which may pair off with the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!”

“Imagine my astonishment,” continued Milady, “when I found myself face to face with this woman!”

“Does she know you?”

“No.”

“Then she looks upon you as a stranger?”

Milady smiled. “I am her best friend.”

“Upon my honor,” said Rochefort, “it takes you, my dear countess, to perform such miracles!”

“And it is well I can, Chevalier,” said Milady, “for do you know what is going on here?”

“No.”

“They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from the queen.”

“Indeed! And who?”

“D’Artagnan and his friends.”

“Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to the Bastille.”

“Why is it not done already?”

“What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I cannot comprehend.”

“Indeed!”

“Yes.”

“Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that among these four men two only are to be feared—D’Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse—he may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling himself about.”

“But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?”

“I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on the road hither to take her away.”

“The devil! What’s to be done?”

“What did the cardinal say about me?”

“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post; and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have to do.”

“I must, then, remain here?”

“Here, or in the neighborhood.”

“You cannot take me with you?”

“No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal.”

“Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?”

“Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the cardinal; let me know always where to find you.”

“Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here.”

“Why?”

“You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute.”

“That’s true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?”

“Bah!” said Milady, with a smile that belonged only to herself; “you forget that I am her best friend.”

“Ah, that’s true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this little woman—”

“That he may be at ease.”

“Is that all?”

“He will know what that means.”

“He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?”

“Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the trouble of a little diligence.”

“My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers.”

“Capital!”

“What, _capital?_”

“Yes, I want your chaise.”

“And how shall I travel, then?”

“On horseback.”

“You talk very comfortably,—a hundred and eighty leagues!”

“What’s that?”

“One can do it! Afterward?”

“Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal.”

“Well.”

“You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?”

“I have my _full power_.”

“Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who presents himself in your name.”

“Very well.”

“Don’t forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess.”

“To what purpose?”

“I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence in that poor little Madame Bonacieux.”

“That’s true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?”

“Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may be lost.”

“You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run needlessly about the neighborhood.”

“That’s correct; wait!”

“Do you want a map?”

“Oh, I know this country marvelously!”

“You? When were you here?”

“I was brought up here.”

“Truly?”

“It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere.”

“You will wait for me, then?”

“Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do—at Armentières.”

“Where is that Armentières?”

“A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country.”

“Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of danger.”

“That is well understood.”

“And in that case, how shall I know where you are?”

“You do not want your lackey?”

“Is he a sure man?”

“To the proof.”

“Give him to me. Nobody knows him. I will leave him at the place I quit, and he will conduct you to me.”

“And you say you will wait for me at Armentières?”

“At Armentières.”

“Write that name on a bit of paper, lest I should forget it. There is nothing compromising in the name of a town. Is it not so?”

“Eh, who knows? Never mind,” said Milady, writing the name on half a sheet of paper; “I will compromise myself.”

“Well,” said Rochefort, taking the paper from Milady, folding it, and placing it in the lining of his hat, “you may be easy. I will do as children do, for fear of losing the paper—repeat the name along the route. Now, is that all?”

“I believe so.”

“Let us see: Buckingham dead or grievously wounded; your conversation with the cardinal overheard by the four Musketeers; Lord de Winter warned of your arrival at Portsmouth; D’Artagnan and Athos to the Bastille; Aramis the lover of Madame de Chevreuse; Porthos an ass; Madame Bonacieux found again; to send you the chaise as soon as possible; to place my lackey at your disposal; to make you out a victim of the cardinal in order that the abbess may entertain no suspicion; Armentières, on the banks of the Lys. Is that all, then?”

“In truth, my dear Chevalier, you are a miracle of memory. _A propos_, add one thing—”

“What?”

“I saw some very pretty woods which almost touch the convent garden. Say that I am permitted to walk in those woods. Who knows? Perhaps I shall stand in need of a back door for retreat.”

“You think of everything.”

“And you forget one thing.”

“What?”

“To ask me if I want money.”

“That’s true. How much do you want?”

“All you have in gold.”

“I have five hundred pistoles, or thereabouts.”

“I have as much. With a thousand pistoles one may face everything. Empty your pockets.”

“There.”

“Right. And you go—”

“In an hour—time to eat a morsel, during which I shall send for a post horse.”

“Capital! Adieu, Chevalier.”

“Adieu, Countess.”

“Commend me to the cardinal.”

“Commend me to Satan.”

Milady and Rochefort exchanged a smile and separated. An hour afterward Rochefort set out at a grand gallop; five hours after that he passed through Arras.

Our readers already know how he was recognized by D’Artagnan, and how that recognition by inspiring fear in the four Musketeers had given fresh activity to their journey.

Chapter LXIII. THE DROP OF WATER

Rochefort had scarcely departed when Mme. Bonacieux re-entered. She found Milady with a smiling countenance.

“Well,” said the young woman, “what you dreaded has happened. This evening, or tomorrow, the cardinal will send someone to take you away.”

“Who told you that, my dear?” asked Milady.

“I heard it from the mouth of the messenger himself.”

“Come and sit down close to me,” said Milady.

“Here I am.”

“Wait till I assure myself that nobody hears us.”

“Why all these precautions?”

“You shall know.”

Milady arose, went to the door, opened it, looked in the corridor, and then returned and seated herself close to Mme. Bonacieux.

“Then,” said she, “he has well played his part.”

“Who has?”

“He who just now presented himself to the abbess as a messenger from the cardinal.”

“It was, then, a part he was playing?”

“Yes, my child.”

“That man, then, was not—”

“That man,” said Milady, lowering her voice, “is my brother.”

“Your brother!” cried Mme. Bonacieux.

“No one must know this secret, my dear, but yourself. If you reveal it to anyone in the world, I shall be lost, and perhaps yourself likewise.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Listen. This is what has happened: My brother, who was coming to my assistance to take me away by force if it were necessary, met with the emissary of the cardinal, who was coming in search of me. He followed him. At a solitary and retired part of the road he drew his sword, and required the messenger to deliver up to him the papers of which he was the bearer. The messenger resisted; my brother killed him.”

“Oh!” said Mme. Bonacieux, shuddering.

“Remember, that was the only means. Then my brother determined to substitute cunning for force. He took the papers, and presented himself here as the emissary of the cardinal, and in an hour or two a carriage will come to take me away by the orders of his Eminence.”

“I understand. It is your brother who sends this carriage.”

“Exactly; but that is not all. That letter you have received, and which you believe to be from Madame de Chevreuse—”

“Well?”

“It is a forgery.”

“How can that be?”

“Yes, a forgery; it is a snare to prevent your making any resistance when they come to fetch you.”

“But it is D’Artagnan that will come.”

“Do not deceive yourself. D’Artagnan and his friends are detained at the siege of La Rochelle.”

“How do you know that?”

“My brother met some emissaries of the cardinal in the uniform of Musketeers. You would have been summoned to the gate; you would have believed yourself about to meet friends; you would have been abducted, and conducted back to Paris.”

“Oh, my God! My senses fail me amid such a chaos of iniquities. I feel, if this continues,” said Mme. Bonacieux, raising her hands to her forehead, “I shall go mad!”

“Stop—”

“What?”

“I hear a horse’s steps; it is my brother setting off again. I should like to offer him a last salute. Come!”

Milady opened the window, and made a sign to Mme. Bonacieux to join her. The young woman complied.

Rochefort passed at a gallop.

“Adieu, brother!” cried Milady.

The chevalier raised his head, saw the two young women, and without stopping, waved his hand in a friendly way to Milady.

“The good George!” said she, closing the window with an expression of countenance full of affection and melancholy. And she resumed her seat, as if plunged in reflections entirely personal.

“Dear lady,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “pardon me for interrupting you; but what do you advise me to do? Good heaven! You have more experience than I have. Speak; I will listen.”

“In the first place,” said Milady, “it is possible I may be deceived, and that D’Artagnan and his friends may really come to your assistance.”

“Oh, that would be too much!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “so much happiness is not in store for me!”

“Then you comprehend it would be only a question of time, a sort of race, which should arrive first. If your friends are the more speedy, you are to be saved; if the satellites of the cardinal, you are lost.”

“Oh, yes, yes; lost beyond redemption! What, then, to do? What to do?”

“There would be a very simple means, very natural—”

“Tell me what!”

“To wait, concealed in the neighborhood, and assure yourself who are the men who come to ask for you.”

“But where can I wait?”

“Oh, there is no difficulty in that. I shall stop and conceal myself a few leagues hence until my brother can rejoin me. Well, I take you with me; we conceal ourselves, and wait together.”

“But I shall not be allowed to go; I am almost a prisoner.”

“As they believe that I go in consequence of an order from the cardinal, no one will believe you anxious to follow me.”

“Well?”

“Well! The carriage is at the door; you bid me adieu; you mount the step to embrace me a last time; my brother’s servant, who comes to fetch me, is told how to proceed; he makes a sign to the postillion, and we set off at a gallop.”

“But D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan! if he comes?”

“Shall we not know it?”

“How?”

“Nothing easier. We will send my brother’s servant back to Béthune, whom, as I told you, we can trust. He shall assume a disguise, and place himself in front of the convent. If the emissaries of the cardinal arrive, he will take no notice; if it is Monsieur d’Artagnan and his friends, he will bring them to us.”

“He knows them, then?”

“Doubtless. Has he not seen Monsieur d’Artagnan at my house?”

“Oh, yes, yes; you are right. Thus all may go well—all may be for the best; but we do not go far from this place?”

“Seven or eight leagues at the most. We will keep on the frontiers, for instance; and at the first alarm we can leave France.”

“And what can we do there?”

“Wait.”

“But if they come?”

“My brother’s carriage will be here first.”

“If I should happen to be any distance from you when the carriage comes for you—at dinner or supper, for instance?”

“Do one thing.”

“What is that?”

“Tell your good superior that in order that we may be as much together as possible, you ask her permission to share my repast.”

“Will she permit it?”

“What inconvenience can it be?”

“Oh, delightful! In this way we shall not be separated for an instant.”

“Well, go down to her, then, to make your request. I feel my head a little confused; I will take a turn in the garden.”

“Go; and where shall I find you?”

“Here, in an hour.”

“Here, in an hour. Oh, you are so kind, and I am so grateful!”

“How can I avoid interesting myself for one who is so beautiful and so amiable? Are you not the beloved of one of my best friends?”

“Dear D’Artagnan! Oh, how he will thank you!”

“I hope so. Now, then, all is agreed; let us go down.”

“You are going into the garden?”

“Yes.”

“Go along this corridor, down a little staircase, and you are in it.”

“Excellent; thank you!”

And the two women parted, exchanging charming smiles.

Milady had told the truth—her head was confused, for her ill-arranged plans clashed one another like chaos. She required to be alone that she might put her thoughts a little into order. She saw vaguely the future; but she stood in need of a little silence and quiet to give all her ideas, as yet confused, a distinct form and a regular plan.

What was most pressing was to get Mme. Bonacieux away, and convey her to a place of safety, and there, if matters required, make her a hostage. Milady began to have doubts of the issue of this terrible duel, in which her enemies showed as much perseverance as she did animosity.

Besides, she felt as we feel when a storm is coming on—that this issue was near, and could not fail to be terrible.

The principal thing for her, then, was, as we have said, to keep Mme. Bonacieux in her power. Mme. Bonacieux was the very life of D’Artagnan. This was more than his life, the life of the woman he loved; this was, in case of ill fortune, a means of temporizing and obtaining good conditions.

Now, this point was settled; Mme. Bonacieux, without any suspicion, accompanied her. Once concealed with her at Armentières, it would be easy to make her believe that D’Artagnan had not come to Béthune. In fifteen days at most, Rochefort would be back; besides, during that fifteen days she would have time to think how she could best avenge herself on the four friends. She would not be weary, thank God! for she should enjoy the sweetest pastime such events could accord a woman of her character—perfecting a beautiful vengeance.

Revolving all this in her mind, she cast her eyes around her, and arranged the topography of the garden in her head. Milady was like a good general who contemplates at the same time victory and defeat, and who is quite prepared, according to the chances of the battle, to march forward or to beat a retreat.

At the end of an hour she heard a soft voice calling her; it was Mme. Bonacieux’s. The good abbess had naturally consented to her request; and as a commencement, they were to sup together.

On reaching the courtyard, they heard the noise of a carriage which stopped at the gate.

Milady listened.

“Do you hear anything?” said she.

“Yes, the rolling of a carriage.”

“It is the one my brother sends for us.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Come, come! courage!”

The bell of the convent gate was sounded; Milady was not mistaken.

“Go to your chamber,” said she to Mme. Bonacieux; “you have perhaps some jewels you would like to take.”

“I have his letters,” said she.

“Well, go and fetch them, and come to my apartment. We will snatch some supper; we shall perhaps travel part of the night, and must keep our strength up.”

“Great God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, placing her hand upon her bosom, “my heart beats so I cannot walk.”

“Courage, courage! remember that in a quarter of an hour you will be safe; and think that what you are about to do is for _his_ sake.”

“Yes, yes, everything for him. You have restored my courage by a single word; go, I will rejoin you.”

Milady ran up to her apartment quickly; she there found Rochefort’s lackey, and gave him his instructions.

He was to wait at the gate; if by chance the Musketeers should appear, the carriage was to set off as fast as possible, pass around the convent, and go and wait for Milady at a little village which was situated at the other side of the wood. In this case Milady would cross the garden and gain the village on foot. As we have already said, Milady was admirably acquainted with this part of France.

If the Musketeers did not appear, things were to go on as had been agreed; Mme. Bonacieux was to get into the carriage as if to bid her adieu, and she was to take away Mme. Bonacieux.

Mme. Bonacieux came in; and to remove all suspicion, if she had any, Milady repeated to the lackey, before her, the latter part of her instructions.

Milady asked some questions about the carriage. It was a chaise drawn by three horses, driven by a postillion; Rochefort’s lackey would precede it, as courier.

Milady was wrong in fearing that Mme. Bonacieux would have any suspicion. The poor young woman was too pure to suppose that any female could be guilty of such perfidy; besides, the name of the Comtesse de Winter, which she had heard the abbess pronounce, was wholly unknown to her, and she was even ignorant that a woman had had so great and so fatal a share in the misfortune of her life.

“You see,” said she, when the lackey had gone out, “everything is ready. The abbess suspects nothing, and believes that I am taken by order of the cardinal. This man goes to give his last orders; take the least thing, drink a finger of wine, and let us be gone.”

“Yes,” said Mme. Bonacieux, mechanically, “yes, let us be gone.”

Milady made her a sign to sit down opposite, poured her a small glass of Spanish wine, and helped her to the wing of a chicken.

“See,” said she, “if everything does not second us! Here is night coming on; by daybreak we shall have reached our retreat, and nobody can guess where we are. Come, courage! take something.”

Mme. Bonacieux ate a few mouthfuls mechanically, and just touched the glass with her lips.

“Come, come!” said Milady, lifting hers to her mouth, “do as I do.”

But at the moment the glass touched her lips, her hand remained suspended; she heard something on the road which sounded like the rattling of a distant gallop. Then it grew nearer, and it seemed to her, almost at the same time, that she heard the neighing of horses.

This noise acted upon her joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper in the midst of a happy dream; she grew pale and ran to the window, while Mme. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported herself upon her chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard the galloping draw nearer.

“Oh, my God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “what is that noise?”

“That of either our friends or our enemies,” said Milady, with her terrible coolness. “Stay where you are, I will tell you.”

Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute, motionless, and pale as a statue.

The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred and fifty paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was because the road made an elbow. The noise became so distinct that the horses might be counted by the rattle of their hoofs.

Milady gazed with all the power of her attention; it was just light enough for her to see who was coming.

All at once, at the turning of the road she saw the glitter of laced hats and the waving of feathers; she counted two, then five, then eight horsemen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of his horse.

Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized D’Artagnan.

“Oh, my God, my God,” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “what is it?”

“It is the uniform of the cardinal’s Guards. Not an instant to be lost! Fly, fly!”

“Yes, yes, let us fly!” repeated Mme. Bonacieux, but without being able to make a step, glued as she was to the spot by terror.

They heard the horsemen pass under the windows.

“Come, then, come, then!” cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman along by the arm. “Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late!”

Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees. Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.

At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop. Then three or four shots were fired.

“For the last time, will you come?” cried Milady.

“Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I cannot walk. Flee alone!”

“Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never!” cried Milady.

All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux’s glass the contents of a ring which she opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish color, which dissolved immediately.

Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, “Drink. This wine will give you strength, drink!” And she put the glass to the lips of the young woman, who drank mechanically.

“This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself,” said Milady, replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, “but, my faith! we do what we can!” And she rushed out of the room.

Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was like people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.

A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate. Every instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return. Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her burning brow.

At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs. There was a great murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to hear her own name pronounced.

All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door; she had recognized the voice of D’Artagnan.

“D’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried she, “is it you? This way! this way!”

“Constance? Constance?” replied the young man, “where are you? where are you? My God!”

At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than opened; several men rushed into the chamber. Mme. Bonacieux had sunk into an armchair, without the power of moving.

D’Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand, and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his in his belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands, returned them to their scabbards.

“Oh, D’Artagnan, my beloved D’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last! You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!”

“Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!”

“Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence. I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!”

At this word _she_, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.

“_She!_ What she?” asked D’Artagnan.

“Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal’s Guards, has just fled away.”

“Your companion!” cried D’Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white veil of his mistress. “Of what companion are you speaking, dear Constance?”

“Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything.”

“Her name, her name!” cried D’Artagnan. “My God, can you not remember her name?”

“Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop—but—it is very strange—oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!”

“Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold,” cried D’Artagnan. “She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!”

While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.

“Oh!” said Athos, “oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!”

“Water, water!” cried D’Artagnan. “Water!”

“Oh, poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.

Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of D’Artagnan.

“She revives!” cried the young man. “Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!”

“Madame!” said Athos, “madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass is this?”

“Mine, monsieur,” said the young woman, in a dying voice.

“But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?”

“She.”

“But who is _she?_”

“Oh, I remember!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “the Comtesse de Winter.”

The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos dominated all the rest.

At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.

D’Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be described.

“And what do you believe?” His voice was stifled by sobs.

“I believe everything,” said Athos, biting his lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.

“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!”

D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.

“In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!”

“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which _she_ pours there is no antidote.”

“Yes, yes! Help, help!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux; “help!”

Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.

“Constance, Constance!” cried D’Artagnan.

A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on the lips of D’Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste and so loving, which reascended to heaven.

D’Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy as herself.

Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the cross.

At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and D’Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.

“I was not deceived,” said he; “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan; and you are his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”

The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with astonishment. It seemed to all three that they knew him.

“Gentlemen,” resumed the newcomer, “you are, as I am, in search of a woman who,” added he, with a terrible smile, “must have passed this way, for I see a corpse.”

The three friends remained mute—for although the voice as well as the countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not remember under what circumstances.

“Gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “since you do not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lord de Winter, brother-in-law of that _woman_.”

The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.

Athos rose, and offering him his hand, “Be welcome, my Lord,” said he, “you are one of us.”

“I set out five hours after her from Portsmouth,” said Lord de Winter. “I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty minutes at St. Omer. Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of her. I was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you gallop past. I recognized Monsieur d’Artagnan. I called to you, but you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much fatigued to go at the same pace with yours. And yet it appears, in spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late.”

“You see!” said Athos, pointing to Mme. Bonacieux dead, and to D’Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall to life.

“Are they both dead?” asked Lord de Winter, sternly.

“No,” replied Athos, “fortunately Monsieur d’Artagnan has only fainted.”

“Ah, indeed, so much the better!” said Lord de Winter.

At that moment D’Artagnan opened his eyes. He tore himself from the arms of Porthos and Aramis, and threw himself like a madman on the corpse of his mistress.

Athos rose, walked toward his friend with a slow and solemn step, embraced him tenderly, and as he burst into violent sobs, he said to him with his noble and persuasive voice, “Friend, be a man! Women weep for the dead; men avenge them!”

“Oh, yes!” cried D’Artagnan, “yes! If it be to avenge her, I am ready to follow you.”

Athos profited by this moment of strength which the hope of vengeance restored to his unfortunate friend to make a sign to Porthos and Aramis to go and fetch the superior.

The two friends met her in the corridor, greatly troubled and much upset by such strange events; she called some of the nuns, who against all monastic custom found themselves in the presence of five men.

“Madame,” said Athos, passing his arm under that of D’Artagnan, “we abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate woman. She was an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat her as one of your sisters. We will return someday to pray over her grave.”

D’Artagnan concealed his face in the bosom of Athos, and sobbed aloud.

“Weep,” said Athos, “weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas, would I could weep like you!”

And he drew away his friend, as affectionate as a father, as consoling as a priest, noble as a man who has suffered much.

All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way to the town of Béthune, whose outskirts they perceived, and stopped before the first inn they came to.

“But,” said D’Artagnan, “shall we not pursue that woman?”

“Later,” said Athos. “I have measures to take.”

“She will escape us,” replied the young man; “she will escape us, and it will be your fault, Athos.”

“I will be accountable for her,” said Athos.

D’Artagnan had so much confidence in the word of his friend that he lowered his head, and entered the inn without reply.

Porthos and Aramis regarded each other, not understanding this assurance of Athos.

Lord de Winter believed he spoke in this manner to soothe the grief of D’Artagnan.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Athos, when he had ascertained there were five chambers free in the hôtel, “let everyone retire to his own apartment. D’Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of everything; be easy.”

“It appears, however,” said Lord de Winter, “if there are any measures to take against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law.”

“And me,” said Athos, “—she is my wife!”

D’Artagnan smiled—for he understood that Athos was sure of his vengeance when he revealed such a secret. Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, and grew pale. Lord de Winter thought Athos was mad.

“Now, retire to your chambers,” said Athos, “and leave me to act. You must perceive that in my quality of a husband this concerns me. Only, D’Artagnan, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from that man’s hat, upon which is written the name of the village of—”

“Ah,” said D’Artagnan, “I comprehend! that name written in her hand.”

“You see, then,” said Athos, “there is a god in heaven still!”

Chapter LXIV. THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK

The despair of Athos had given place to a concentrated grief which only rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary man.

Possessed by one single thought—that of the promise he had made, and of the responsibility he had taken—he retired last to his chamber, begged the host to procure him a map of the province, bent over it, examined every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different roads from Béthune to Armentières, and summoned the lackeys.

Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athos.

They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentières—each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four, was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by Rochefort’s servant.

Athos set the lackeys to work first because, since these men had been in the service of himself and his friends he had discovered in each of them different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions inspire less mistrust than masters, and meet with more sympathy among those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milady knew the masters, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew Milady perfectly.

All four were to meet the next day at eleven o’clock. If they had discovered Milady’s retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth was to return to Béthune in order to inform Athos and serve as a guide to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired.

Athos then arose from his chair, girded on his sword, enveloped himself in his cloak, and left the hôtel. It was nearly ten o’clock. At ten o’clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial towns are very little frequented. Athos nevertheless was visibly anxious to find someone of whom he could ask a question. At length he met a belated passenger, went up to him, and spoke a few words to him. The man he addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athos offered the man half a pistole to accompany him, but the man refused.

Athos then plunged into the street the man had indicated with his finger; but arriving at four crossroads, he stopped again, visibly embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered him a better chance than any other place of meeting somebody, he stood still. In a few minutes a night watch passed. Athos repeated to him the same question he had asked the first person he met. The night watch evinced the same terror, refused, in his turn, to accompany Athos, and only pointed with his hand to the road he was to take.

Athos walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which he and his friends had entered it. There he again appeared uneasy and embarrassed, and stopped for the third time.

Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athos to ask charity, Athos offered him half a crown to accompany him where he was going. The mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver which shone in the darkness he consented, and walked on before Athos.

Arrived at the angle of a street, he pointed to a small house, isolated, solitary, and dismal. Athos went toward the house, while the mendicant, who had received his reward, left as fast as his legs could carry him.

Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door, amid the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb.

Three times Athos knocked without receiving an answer. At the third knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened, and a man appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair and beard.

Athos and he exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall man made a sign to the Musketeer that he might come in. Athos immediately profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind him.

The man whom Athos had come so far to seek, and whom he had found with so much trouble, introduced him into his laboratory, where he was engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the table.

All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house occupied himself with the study of natural science. There were large bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues unknown to common men, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall man alone inhabited this house.

Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have described, and at the invitation of him whom he came to seek sat down near him.

Then he explained to him the cause of his visit, and the service he required of him. But scarcely had he expressed his request when the unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with signs of terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and a seal, and presented them to him who had made too prematurely these signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read these lines, seen the signature, and recognized the seal, when he bowed to denote that he had no longer any objection to make, and that he was ready to obey.

Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same way he came, re-entered the hôtel, and went to his apartment.

At daybreak D’Artagnan entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be done.

“To wait,” replied Athos.

Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the poisoner, they had heard no tidings of her whatever, only that she must have made her escape through the garden, on the sand of which her footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut. As to the key, it had disappeared.

At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter and the four friends repaired to the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim, clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the profane, or being seen by them.

At the door of the chapel D’Artagnan felt his courage fall anew, and returned to look for Athos; but Athos had disappeared.

Faithful to his mission of vengeance, Athos had requested to be conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light steps of this woman, who left sharp tracks wherever she went, he advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be opened, he went out into the forest.

Then all his suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage had disappeared encircled the forest. Athos followed the road for some time, his eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came from the wound inflicted upon the man who accompanied the carriage as a courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped here. At this spot Milady had come out of the wood, and entered the carriage.

Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all his suspicions, Athos returned to the hôtel, and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him.

Everything was as Athos had foreseen.

Planchet had followed the road; like Athos, he had discovered the stains of blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot where the horses had halted. But he had gone farther than Athos—for at the village of Festubert, while drinking at an inn, he had learned without needing to ask a question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded man who accompanied a lady traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop, unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The man remained in the village; the woman had had a relay of horses, and continued her journey.

Planchet went in search of the postillion who had driven her, and found him. He had taken the lady as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles she had set out for Armentières. Planchet took the crossroad, and by seven o’clock in the morning he was at Armentières.

There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. He had not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he learned that a woman had come there alone about eleven o’clock the night before, had engaged a chamber, had sent for the master of the hôtel, and told him she desired to remain some time in the neighborhood.

Planchet had no need to learn more. He hastened to the rendezvous, found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the outlets of the hôtel, and came to find Athos, who had just received this information when his friends returned.

All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild countenance of Aramis.

“What is to be done?” asked D’Artagnan.

“To wait!” replied Athos.

Each retired to his own apartment.

At eight o’clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled, and Lord de Winter and his friends notified that they must prepare for the expedition.

In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them in order. Athos came down last, and found D’Artagnan already on horseback, and growing impatient.

“Patience!” cried Athos; “one of our party is still wanting.”

The four horsemen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be.

At this moment Planchet brought out Athos’s horse; the Musketeer leaped lightly into the saddle.

“Wait for me,” cried he, “I will soon be back,” and he set off at a gallop.

In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked, and wrapped in a large red cloak.

Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all were ignorant who this man could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athos.

At nine o’clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out, taking the route the carriage had taken.

It was a melancholy sight—that of these six men, traveling in silence, each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as chastisement.

Chapter LXV. TRIAL

It was a stormy and dark night; vast clouds covered the heavens, concealing the stars; the moon would not rise till midnight.

Occasionally, by the light of a flash of lightning which gleamed along the horizon, the road stretched itself before them, white and solitary; the flash extinct, all remained in darkness.

Every minute Athos was forced to restrain D’Artagnan, constantly in advance of the little troop, and to beg him to keep in the line, which in an instant he again departed from. He had but one thought—to go forward; and he went.

They passed in silence through the little village of Festubert, where the wounded servant was, and then skirted the wood of Richebourg. At Herlier, Planchet, who led the column, turned to the left.

Several times Lord de Winter, Porthos, or Aramis tried to talk with the man in the red cloak; but to every interrogation which they put to him he bowed, without response. The travelers then comprehended that there must be some reason why the unknown preserved such a silence, and ceased to address themselves to him.

The storm increased, the flashes succeeded one another more rapidly, the thunder began to growl, and the wind, the precursor of a hurricane, whistled in the plumes and the hair of the horsemen.

The cavalcade trotted on more sharply.

A little before they came to Fromelles the storm burst. They spread their cloaks. There remained three leagues to travel, and they did it amid torrents of rain.

D’Artagnan took off his hat, and could not be persuaded to make use of his cloak. He found pleasure in feeling the water trickle over his burning brow and over his body, agitated by feverish shudders.

The moment the little troop passed Goskal and were approaching the Post, a man sheltered beneath a tree detached himself from the trunk with which he had been confounded in the darkness, and advanced into the middle of the road, putting his finger on his lips.

Athos recognized Grimaud.

“What’s the manner?” cried Athos. “Has she left Armentières?”

Grimaud made a sign in the affirmative. D’Artagnan ground his teeth.

“Silence, D’Artagnan!” said Athos. “I have charged myself with this affair. It is for me, then, to interrogate Grimaud.”

“Where is she?” asked Athos.

Grimaud extended his hands in the direction of the Lys. “Far from here?” asked Athos.

Grimaud showed his master his forefinger bent.

“Alone?” asked Athos.

Grimaud made the sign yes.

“Gentlemen,” said Athos, “she is alone within half a league of us, in the direction of the river.”

“That’s well,” said D’Artagnan. “Lead us, Grimaud.”

Grimaud took his course across the country, and acted as guide to the cavalcade.

At the end of five hundred paces, more or less, they came to a rivulet, which they forded.

By the aid of the lightning they perceived the village of Erquinheim.

“Is she there, Grimaud?” asked Athos.

Grimaud shook his head negatively.

“Silence, then!” cried Athos.

And the troop continued their route.

Another flash illuminated all around them. Grimaud extended his arm, and by the bluish splendor of the fiery serpent they distinguished a little isolated house on the banks of the river, within a hundred paces of a ferry.

One window was lighted.

“Here we are!” said Athos.

At this moment a man who had been crouching in a ditch jumped up and came towards them. It was Mousqueton. He pointed his finger to the lighted window.

“She is there,” said he.

“And Bazin?” asked Athos.

“While I watched the window, he guarded the door.”

“Good!” said Athos. “You are good and faithful servants.”

Athos sprang from his horse, gave the bridle to Grimaud, and advanced toward the window, after having made a sign to the rest of the troop to go toward the door.

The little house was surrounded by a low, quickset hedge, two or three feet high. Athos sprang over the hedge and went up to the window, which was without shutters, but had the half-curtains closely drawn.

He mounted the skirting stone that his eyes might look over the curtain.

By the light of a lamp he saw a woman, wrapped in a dark mantle, seated upon a stool near a dying fire. Her elbows were placed upon a mean table, and she leaned her head upon her two hands, which were white as ivory.

He could not distinguish her countenance, but a sinister smile passed over the lips of Athos. He was not deceived; it was she whom he sought.

At this moment a horse neighed. Milady raised her head, saw close to the panes the pale face of Athos, and screamed.

Athos, perceiving that she knew him, pushed the window with his knee and hand. The window yielded. The squares were broken to shivers; and Athos, like the spectre of vengeance, leaped into the room.

Milady rushed to the door and opened it. More pale and menacing than Athos, D’Artagnan stood on the threshold.

Milady recoiled, uttering a cry. D’Artagnan, believing she might have means of flight and fearing she should escape, drew a pistol from his belt; but Athos raised his hand.

“Put back that weapon, D’Artagnan!” said he; “this woman must be tried, not assassinated. Wait an instant, my friend, and you shall be satisfied. Come in, gentlemen.”

D’Artagnan obeyed; for Athos had the solemn voice and the powerful gesture of a judge sent by the Lord himself. Behind D’Artagnan entered Porthos, Aramis, Lord de Winter, and the man in the red cloak.

The four lackeys guarded the door and the window.

Milady had sunk into a chair, with her hands extended, as if to conjure this terrible apparition. Perceiving her brother-in-law, she uttered a terrible cry.

“What do you want?” screamed Milady.

“We want,” said Athos, “Charlotte Backson, who first was called Comtesse de la Fère, and afterwards Milady de Winter, Baroness of Sheffield.”

“That is I! that is I!” murmured Milady, in extreme terror; “what do you want?”

“We wish to judge you according to your crime,” said Athos; “you shall be free to defend yourself. Justify yourself if you can. M. d’Artagnan, it is for you to accuse her first.”

D’Artagnan advanced.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having poisoned Constance Bonacieux, who died yesterday evening.”

He turned towards Porthos and Aramis.

“We bear witness to this,” said the two Musketeers, with one voice.

D’Artagnan continued: “Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having attempted to poison me, in wine which she sent me from Villeroy, with a forged letter, as if that wine came from my friends. God preserved me, but a man named Brisemont died in my place.”

“We bear witness to this,” said Porthos and Aramis, in the same manner as before.

“Before God and before men, I accuse this woman of having urged me to the murder of the Baron de Wardes; but as no one else can attest the truth of this accusation, I attest it myself. I have done.” And D’Artagnan passed to the other side of the room with Porthos and Aramis.

“Your turn, my Lord,” said Athos.

The baron came forward.

“Before God and before men,” said he, “I accuse this woman of having caused the assassination of the Duke of Buckingham.”

“The Duke of Buckingham assassinated!” cried all present, with one voice.

“Yes,” said the baron, “assassinated. On receiving the warning letter you wrote to me, I had this woman arrested, and gave her in charge to a loyal servant. She corrupted this man; she placed the poniard in his hand; she made him kill the duke. And at this moment, perhaps, Felton is paying with his head for the crime of this fury!”

A shudder crept through the judges at the revelation of these unknown crimes.

“That is not all,” resumed Lord de Winter. “My brother, who made you his heir, died in three hours of a strange disorder which left livid traces all over the body. My sister, how did your husband die?”

“Horror!” cried Porthos and Aramis.

“Assassin of Buckingham, assassin of Felton, assassin of my brother, I demand justice upon you, and I swear that if it be not granted to me, I will execute it myself.”

And Lord de Winter ranged himself by the side of D’Artagnan, leaving the place free for another accuser.

Milady let her head sink between her two hands, and tried to recall her ideas, whirling in a mortal vertigo.

“My turn,” said Athos, himself trembling as the lion trembles at the sight of the serpent—“my turn. I married that woman when she was a young girl; I married her in opposition to the wishes of all my family; I gave her my wealth, I gave her my name; and one day I discovered that this woman was branded—this woman was marked with a _fleur-de-lis_ on her left shoulder.”

“Oh,” said Milady, raising herself, “I defy you to find any tribunal which pronounced that infamous sentence against me. I defy you to find him who executed it.”

“Silence!” said a hollow voice. “It is for me to reply to that!” And the man in the red cloak came forward in his turn.

“What man is that? What man is that?” cried Milady, suffocated by terror, her hair loosening itself, and rising above her livid countenance as if alive.

All eyes were turned towards this man—for to all except Athos he was unknown.

Even Athos looked at him with as much stupefaction as the others, for he knew not how he could in any way find himself mixed up with the horrible drama then unfolded.

After approaching Milady with a slow and solemn step, so that the table alone separated them, the unknown took off his mask.

Milady for some time examined with increasing terror that pale face, framed with black hair and whiskers, the only expression of which was icy impassibility. Then she suddenly cried, “Oh, no, no!” rising and retreating to the very wall. “No, no! it is an infernal apparition! It is not he! Help, help!” screamed she, turning towards the wall, as if she would tear an opening with her hands.

“Who are you, then?” cried all the witnesses of this scene.

“Ask that woman,” said the man in the red cloak, “for you may plainly see she knows me!”

“The executioner of Lille, the executioner of Lille!” cried Milady, a prey to insensate terror, and clinging with her hands to the wall to avoid falling.

Everyone drew back, and the man in the red cloak remained standing alone in the middle of the room.

“Oh, grace, grace, pardon!” cried the wretch, falling on her knees.

The unknown waited for silence, and then resumed, “I told you well that she would know me. Yes, I am the executioner of Lille, and this is my history.”

All eyes were fixed upon this man, whose words were listened to with anxious attention.

“That woman was once a young girl, as beautiful as she is today. She was a nun in the convent of the Benedictines of Templemar. A young priest, with a simple and trustful heart, performed the duties of the church of that convent. She undertook his seduction, and succeeded; she would have seduced a saint.

“Their vows were sacred and irrevocable. Their connection could not last long without ruining both. She prevailed upon him to leave the country; but to leave the country, to fly together, to reach another part of France, where they might live at ease because unknown, money was necessary. Neither had any. The priest stole the sacred vases, and sold them; but as they were preparing to escape together, they were both arrested.

“Eight days later she had seduced the son of the jailer, and escaped. The young priest was condemned to ten years of imprisonment, and to be branded. I was executioner of the city of Lille, as this woman has said. I was obliged to brand the guilty one; and he, gentlemen, was my brother!

“I then swore that this woman who had ruined him, who was more than his accomplice, since she had urged him to the crime, should at least share his punishment. I suspected where she was concealed. I followed her, I caught her, I bound her; and I imprinted the same disgraceful mark upon her that I had imprinted upon my poor brother.

“The day after my return to Lille, my brother in his turn succeeded in making his escape; I was accused of complicity, and was condemned to remain in his place till he should be again a prisoner. My poor brother was ignorant of this sentence. He rejoined this woman; they fled together into Berry, and there he obtained a little curacy. This woman passed for his sister.

“The Lord of the estate on which the chapel of the curacy was situated saw this pretend sister, and became enamoured of her—amorous to such a degree that he proposed to marry her. Then she quitted him she had ruined for him she was destined to ruin, and became the Comtesse de la Fère—”

All eyes were turned towards Athos, whose real name that was, and who made a sign with his head that all was true which the executioner had said.

“Then,” resumed he, “mad, desperate, determined to get rid of an existence from which she had stolen everything, honor and happiness, my poor brother returned to Lille, and learning the sentence which had condemned me in his place, surrendered himself, and hanged himself that same night from the iron bar of the loophole of his prison.

“To do justice to them who had condemned me, they kept their word. As soon as the identity of my brother was proved, I was set at liberty.

“That is the crime of which I accuse her; that is the cause for which she was branded.”

“Monsieur d’Artagnan,” said Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied D’Artagnan.

“My Lord de Winter,” continued Athos, “what is the penalty you demand against this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied Lord de Winter.

“Messieurs Porthos and Aramis,” repeated Athos, “you who are her judges, what is the sentence you pronounce upon this woman?”

“The punishment of death,” replied the Musketeers, in a hollow voice.

Milady uttered a frightful shriek, and dragged herself along several paces upon her knees toward her judges.

Athos stretched out his hand toward her.

“Charlotte Backson, Comtesse de la Fère, Milady de Winter,” said he, “your crimes have wearied men on earth and God in heaven. If you know a prayer, say it—for you are condemned, and you shall die.”

At these words, which left no hope, Milady raised herself in all her pride, and wished to speak; but her strength failed her. She felt that a powerful and implacable hand seized her by the hair, and dragged her away as irrevocably as fatality drags humanity. She did not, therefore, even attempt the least resistance, and went out of the cottage.

Lord de Winter, D’Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, went out close behind her. The lackeys followed their masters, and the chamber was left solitary, with its broken window, its open door, and its smoky lamp burning sadly on the table.

Chapter LXVI. EXECUTION

It was near midnight; the moon, lessened by its decline, and reddened by the last traces of the storm, arose behind the little town of Armentières, which showed against its pale light the dark outline of its houses, and the skeleton of its high belfry. In front of them the Lys rolled its waters like a river of molten tin; while on the other side was a black mass of trees, profiled on a stormy sky, invaded by large coppery clouds which created a sort of twilight amid the night. On the left was an old abandoned mill, with its motionless wings, from the ruins of which an owl threw out its shrill, periodical, and monotonous cry. On the right and on the left of the road, which the dismal procession pursued, appeared a few low, stunted trees, which looked like deformed dwarfs crouching down to watch men traveling at this sinister hour.

From time to time a broad sheet of lightning opened the horizon in its whole width, darted like a serpent over the black mass of trees, and like a terrible scimitar divided the heavens and the waters into two parts. Not a breath of wind now disturbed the heavy atmosphere. A deathlike silence oppressed all nature. The soil was humid and glittering with the rain which had recently fallen, and the refreshed herbs sent forth their perfume with additional energy.

Two lackeys dragged Milady, whom each held by one arm. The executioner walked behind them, and Lord de Winter, D’Artagnan, Porthos, and Aramis walked behind the executioner. Planchet and Bazin came last.

The two lackeys conducted Milady to the bank of the river. Her mouth was mute; but her eyes spoke with their inexpressible eloquence, supplicating by turns each of those on whom she looked.

Being a few paces in advance she whispered to the lackeys, “A thousand pistoles to each of you, if you will assist my escape; but if you deliver me up to your masters, I have near at hand avengers who will make you pay dearly for my death.”

Grimaud hesitated. Mousqueton trembled in all his members.

Athos, who heard Milady’s voice, came sharply up. Lord de Winter did the same.

“Change these lackeys,” said he; “she has spoken to them. They are no longer sure.”

Planchet and Bazin were called, and took the places of Grimaud and Mousqueton.

On the bank of the river the executioner approached Milady, and bound her hands and feet.

Then she broke the silence to cry out, “You are cowards, miserable assassins—ten men combined to murder one woman. Beware! If I am not saved I shall be avenged.”

“You are not a woman,” said Athos, coldly and sternly. “You do not belong to the human species; you are a demon escaped from hell, whither we send you back again.”

“Ah, you virtuous men!” said Milady; “please to remember that he who shall touch a hair of my head is himself an assassin.”

“The executioner may kill, without being on that account an assassin,” said the man in the red cloak, rapping upon his immense sword. “This is the last judge; that is all. _Nachrichter_, as say our neighbors, the Germans.”

And as he bound her while saying these words, Milady uttered two or three savage cries, which produced a strange and melancholy effect in flying away into the night, and losing themselves in the depths of the woods.

“If I am guilty, if I have committed the crimes you accuse me of,” shrieked Milady, “take me before a tribunal. You are not judges! You cannot condemn me!”

“I offered you Tyburn,” said Lord de Winter. “Why did you not accept it?”

“Because I am not willing to die!” cried Milady, struggling. “Because I am too young to die!”

“The woman you poisoned at Béthune was still younger than you, madame, and yet she is dead,” said D’Artagnan.

“I will enter a cloister; I will become a nun,” said Milady.

“You were in a cloister,” said the executioner, “and you left it to ruin my brother.”

Milady uttered a cry of terror and sank upon her knees. The executioner took her up in his arms and was carrying her toward the boat.

“Oh, my God!” cried she, “my God! are you going to drown me?”

These cries had something so heartrending in them that M. d’Artagnan, who had been at first the most eager in pursuit of Milady, sat down on the stump of a tree and hung his head, covering his ears with the palms of his hands; and yet, notwithstanding, he could still hear her cry and threaten.

D’Artagnan was the youngest of all these men. His heart failed him.

“Oh, I cannot behold this frightful spectacle!” said he. “I cannot consent that this woman should die thus!”

Milady heard these few words and caught at a shadow of hope.

“D’Artagnan, D’Artagnan!” cried she; “remember that I loved you!”

The young man rose and took a step toward her.

But Athos rose likewise, drew his sword, and placed himself in the way.

“If you take one step farther, D’Artagnan,” said he, “we shall cross swords together.”

D’Artagnan sank on his knees and prayed.

“Come,” continued Athos, “executioner, do your duty.”

“Willingly, monseigneur,” said the executioner; “for as I am a good Catholic, I firmly believe I am acting justly in performing my functions on this woman.”

“That’s well.”

Athos made a step toward Milady.

“I pardon you,” said he, “the ill you have done me. I pardon you for my blasted future, my lost honor, my defiled love, and my salvation forever compromised by the despair into which you have cast me. Die in peace!”

Lord de Winter advanced in his turn.

“I pardon you,” said he, “for the poisoning of my brother, and the assassination of his Grace, Lord Buckingham. I pardon you for the death of poor Felton; I pardon you for the attempts upon my own person. Die in peace!”

“And I,” said M. d’Artagnan. “Pardon me, madame, for having by a trick unworthy of a gentleman provoked your anger; and I, in exchange, pardon you the murder of my poor love and your cruel vengeance against me. I pardon you, and I weep for you. Die in peace!”

“I am lost!” murmured Milady in English. “I must die!”

Then she arose of herself, and cast around her one of those piercing looks which seemed to dart from an eye of flame.

She saw nothing; she listened, and she heard nothing.

“Where am I to die?” said she.

“On the other bank,” replied the executioner.

Then he placed her in the boat, and as he was going to set foot in it himself, Athos handed him a sum of silver.

“Here,” said he, “is the price of the execution, that it may be plain we act as judges.”

“That is correct,” said the executioner; “and now in her turn, let this woman see that I am not fulfilling my trade, but my debt.”

And he threw the money into the river.

The boat moved off toward the left-hand shore of the Lys, bearing the guilty woman and the executioner; all the others remained on the right-hand bank, where they fell on their knees.

The boat glided along the ferry rope under the shadow of a pale cloud which hung over the water at that moment.

The troop of friends saw it gain the opposite bank; the figures were defined like black shadows on the red-tinted horizon.

Milady, during the passage had contrived to untie the cord which fastened her feet. On coming near the bank, she jumped lightly on shore and took to flight. But the soil was moist; on reaching the top of the bank, she slipped and fell upon her knees.

She was struck, no doubt, with a superstitious idea; she conceived that heaven denied its aid, and she remained in the attitude in which she had fallen, her head drooping and her hands clasped.

Then they saw from the other bank the executioner raise both his arms slowly; a moonbeam fell upon the blade of the large sword. The two arms fell with a sudden force; they heard the hissing of the scimitar and the cry of the victim, then a truncated mass sank beneath the blow.

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