“Have you enemies, then?” asked Richelieu.
“Yes, Monseigneur—enemies against whom you owe me your support, as I made them in serving Your Eminence.”
“And who are they?” replied the cardinal.
“First of all, a scheming little slut named Bonacieux.”
“She is in the prison of Mantes.”
“That is to say, she was,” replied Milady, “but the queen has cajoled the king into giving her an order by which she was transferred to a convent.”
“A convent?”
“Yes.”
“Which convent?”
“I don’t know; the secret has been well guarded.”
“But I will know!”
“And Your Eminence will then tell me what convent the woman is in?”
“I see nothing inconvenient in that,” said the cardinal.
“Excellent. But I have another enemy, one much more dangerous to me than that little Madame Bonacieux.”
“Who is that?”
“Her lover.”
“What is his name?”
“Oh, Your Eminence knows him well!” cried Milady in sudden fury. “He’s the nemesis of us both! He’s the one who, in an encounter with Your Eminence’s Guards, tipped the victory to the King’s Musketeers. He’s the one who gave three terrible sword wounds to your agent, de Wardes, and caused the failure of the affair of the diamond studs. And now, knowing that I’m the one who had his Madame Bonacieux abducted, he’s sworn to kill me.”
“Ah, yes,” said the cardinal. “I know who you mean.”
“I mean that swine, d’Artagnan!”
“He is an audacious young man,” the cardinal said.
“That audacity is what makes him dangerous.”
“I cannot act without proof that he is somehow connected to Buckingham.”
“Proof!” said Milady. “I’ll find you ten proofs.”
“Well, then, this is the simplest thing in the world! Give me that proof and I’ll send him to the Bastille.”
“Excellent, Monseigneur—but afterward?”
“Once in the Bastille, there is no afterward,” the cardinal said quietly. “By God! If it were as easy to eliminate my enemy as it is to eliminate yours! . . . Is it against such nonentities as these that you ask for an order of immunity?”
“Monseigneur,” Milady said intently, “I ask for quid pro quo: a man for a man, a life for a life. Give me the one, and I will give you the other.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” the cardinal replied, “nor do I want to know. But I like to indulge you, and see nothing inconvenient in giving you what you ask for in regard to someone so inconsequential—especially since you inform me that this d’Artagnan fellow is a libertine, a duelist, and a traitor.”
“He’s a bastard, Monseigneur, a filthy whoreson bastard!”
“Well, then, get me some paper, ink, and a plume,” the cardinal said.
“Here, Monseigneur.”
There was a minute of silence, indicating that the cardinal was choosing his terms carefully in the writing of the order. Athos, who hadn’t missed a word of the conversation, motioned to his two companions and led them to the other end of the room.
“Well, what do you want?” said Porthos. “And why won’t you let us listen to the end of the conversation?”
“Quietly!” whispered Athos. “We’ve heard everything we needed to hear. Besides, it’s not that I don’t want you to listen, but that I have to leave.”
“You have to leave!” said Porthos. “And if the cardinal asks for you, what are we supposed to say?”
“You won’t wait till he asks. You must speak first and tell him that I’ve gone on to scout ahead, as certain of our host’s remarks led me to believe that the road might not be safe. I’ll give the same story to the cardinal’s equerry. The rest is my business, so don’t worry about it.”
“Athos,” said Aramis, “be careful.”
“I said not to worry,” replied Athos. “Trust me to keep my head.”
Porthos and Aramis nodded, and went back to their seats by the stovepipe.
Meanwhile Athos, making no attempts at secrecy, went out the door of the inn, where he convinced the equerry in a few words of the need for an advance scout. He untied and mounted his horse, checked to make sure his pistols were loaded and primed, drew his sword, and rode hell-for-leather down the road to camp.
XLV
A Conjugal Scene
As Athos had foreseen, it wasn’t long before the cardinal came down from the room where he’d met with Milady. He opened the door of the musketeers’ chamber and found Porthos and Aramis deeply engrossed in a game of dice. A quick glance around the room told him that one of the men was missing. “What has become of Monsieur Athos?” he asked.
“He’s gone to scout ahead, Monseigneur,” Porthos replied. “Some remarks by our host led him to believe the road might not be safe.”
“And what have you been doing, Monsieur Porthos?”
“I’ve won five pistoles from Aramis!”
“And now, will you accompany me on our return to camp?”
“We are at Your Eminence’s orders.”
“To horse then, Messieurs. The hour grows late.”
The equerry was at the door, holding the bridle of the cardinal’s mount. In the shadows, not far off, stood two men with three horses. This was the escort that was to conduct Milady to Fort de La Pointe and assist there at her embarkation.
The equerry confirmed to the cardinal what the two musketeers had said about Athos. With a gesture of approval, the cardinal mounted and they returned the way they had come, with the same precautions as before.
Let us leave the cardinal to follow the road to camp, protected by his equerry and the two musketeers, and return to Athos.
He maintained his gallop toward camp until he was out of sight of the inn, then turned his horse to the right, circled around, and came back to within twenty paces of the road, where he watched the passage of the little troop from behind a thicket. Having recognized his companions’ plumed hats and the cardinal’s embroidered cloak, he waited until the riders had turned the corner of the road; when they were out of sight he returned at a gallop to the inn, where the host recognized him and admitted him without trouble.
“My officer forgot to convey an important piece of information to the lady,” Athos said, “and sent me back to correct the oversight.”
“Go on up,” said the host. “She’s still in her chamber.”
Stepping as lightly as he could, Athos climbed the stairs to the landing, and through the open door saw Milady putting on her hat.
He entered the chamber and shut the door behind him. At the sound of the bolt sliding home, Milady turned.
Athos stood just inside the door, enveloped in his cloak, his hat pulled down over his eyes. Seeing this figure, mute and immobile as a statue, Milady took fright. “Who are you? What do you want?” she cried.
“My God! It is her,” Athos murmured. Letting fall his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced toward Milady.
“Do you recognize me, Madame?” he said.
Milady took a step forward, then recoiled as if she’d seen a serpent.
“Good,” said Athos. “I see that you do recognize me.”
“The Comte de La Fère!” Milady murmured. The blood drained from her face and she backed away until stopped by the wall.
“Yes, ‘Milady’,” replied Athos. “The Comte de La Fère, in person, come expressly from the other world for the pleasure of seeing you. Sit down and we’ll discuss it, as Monseigneur the Cardinal said.”
Milady, overcome with terror, sat without saying a word.
“You are a demon, sent to afflict the earth,” said Athos. “Your powers are great, as well I know—but with the aid of God, men may conquer the most terrible of demons. You crossed my path before, and I thought, Madame, that I had crushed you. Either I was mistaken, or Hell has revived you.”
These words brought back frightful memories to Milady. Her head drooped and she uttered a nearly inaudible groan.
“Yes, Hell has revived you,” continued Athos. “Hell has made you rich; Hell has furnished you with another name; Hell has even altered your face. But it has effaced neither the stains from your soul, nor the mark of the brand from your flesh.”
Milady leaped up as if launched by a coiled spring, and her eyes flashed lightning.
Athos remained seated. “You thought me dead, didn’t you? As I thought you to be. And the name of Athos hid the Comte de La Fère, just as the name of Milady Clarice hid Anne de Breuil! Isn’t that what you were called when your honorable brother married us?” Athos laughed. “What a strange position we’re in! We’ve only been able to live till now because each thought the other was dead, and memory is less burdensome than a living person. Though memory can be voracious, and eats from within!”
“But, then,” Milady said, in a faint voice, “why have you returned to me? And what do you want?”
“I want you to know that though I’ve been invisible to your eyes, I haven’t lost sight of you.”
“You know what it is I’ve done?”
“I can recount your actions to you since you entered the service of the cardinal, day by day, until this very evening.”
An incredulous smile passed over Milady’s pale lips.
“Listen: it was you who lifted two diamond studs from the Duke of Buckingham’s shoulder.
“It was you who had Madame Bonacieux carried off.
“It was you who, infatuated with de Wardes, thought to pass the night with him, but opened the door instead to Monsieur d’Artagnan.
“It was you who, believing de Wardes had betrayed you, lusted to have him killed by his rival.
“It was you who, when this rival had discovered your shameful secret, engaged to have him murdered by two assassins you sent in pursuit of him.
“It was you who, after the bullets had missed their mark, sent poisoned wine with a false letter, to make your victim think the wine had come from his friends.
“And to make an end, it was you, in this very chamber, sitting on this chair where I sit, who engaged with the Cardinal de Richelieu to assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, in exchange for his promise to let you assassinate d’Artagnan.”
Milady was livid. “But how?” she said. “Are you Satan?”
“Perhaps,” Athos said. “In any case, listen to this, and listen well. Assassinate the Duke of Buckingham, or have him assassinated —I couldn’t care less! I don’t know him, and besides, he’s an Englishman. But d’Artagnan is a loyal friend, whom I love and will defend. Do not touch a single hair on his head with even the tip of your finger or, I swear to you in the name of my father, it will be your final crime.”
“Monsieur d’Artagnan has cruelly insulted me,” Milady said in a hollow voice, “and he must die.”
“Really? Since when is it possible to insult you, Madame?” Athos mocked. “‘He has insulted me, and he must die.’ Ha!”
“He will die,” repeated Milady. “The woman first, and then him.”
It made Athos suddenly dizzy: the sight of this creature brought back terrible memories, though there was nothing about her now that made him think of her as a woman. He recalled the day, in a situation less dangerous than this one, when he’d attempted to sacrifice her on the altar of his honor. The will to murder came blazing back, swept over him like a fever. He stood up, drew his pistol from his belt, and cocked it.
Milady, pale as a corpse, tried to cry out, but her tongue froze, and she could utter only a hoarse sound that was less like human speech than the croak of a beast. Glued to the dark tapestry behind her, hair in wild disarray, she was a frightful image of terror.
Athos slowly raised his pistol and extended his arm, until the barrel nearly touched Milady’s forehead. Then, in a voice all the more terrible for having the supreme calmness of inflexible resolve, he said, “Madame, you will instantly give up to me that paper the cardinal signed, or, upon my soul, I will blow out your brains.”
Milady might have doubted this with any other man—but she knew Athos. Nevertheless, she didn’t move.
“You have one second to decide,” he said.
Milady saw by the narrowing of his eyes that he was about to fire. She quickly reached her hand between her breasts, drew forth a paper and thrust it at Athos.
“Take it,” she said, “and be damned!”
Athos took the paper and replaced the pistol in his belt. Then, to be certain it was the right one, he approached the lamp, unfolded it, and read:
It is by my order, and for the good of the State, that the bearer has done what has been done.
5 August 162899 RICHELIEU
“And now,” Athos said, resuming his cloak and replacing his hat on his head, “now that I’ve drawn your teeth, viper—bite if you can!”
And he left the chamber without even looking behind him.
Outside the door of the inn he found the two men holding the horses. “Messieurs,” he said, “as you know, Monseigneur’s order is to conduct this woman, as rapidly as possible, to Fort de La Pointe, and stay with her until she’s aboard.”
As this was basically in accord with the orders they’d already received, they bowed their heads in agreement.
As for Athos, he leaped lightly into the saddle and set off at a gallop. But instead of following the road he went across the fields, spurring on his horse and stopping from time to time to listen.
On one of these halts, he heard the sound of several horses on the road. He had no doubt but that it was the cardinal and his escort. He immediately rode to a point ahead of them, rubbed down his horse with some brush and leaves, and placed himself in the middle of the road, about two hundred paces short of the camp.
“Who goes there?” he cried, as soon as he could see the riders.
“That is our brave musketeer, I believe,” said the cardinal.
“Yes, Monseigneur, it’s me,” said Athos.
“Monsieur Athos,” Richelieu said, “accept my thanks for the excellent guard you’ve kept. Messieurs, we have arrived. Take the gate on the left; the password is, ‘Roi et Ré’.”
With these words, the cardinal saluted the three friends with a nod and took the path to the right, followed by his equerry—for, that night, he too slept in the camp.
“Whew!” said Porthos and Aramis together, as soon as the cardinal was out of earshot. “Athos,” Aramis continued, “he signed that paper she demanded.”
“I know,” Athos said serenely, “because here it is.”
And, except when giving the password to the sentinels, the three friends didn’t say another word until they reached their quarters. There, they sent Mousqueton to tell Planchet that his master’s presence was requested in the musketeers’ quarters as soon as he returned from the trenches.
Meanwhile, as Athos had foreseen, when Milady found the two men awaiting her at the door, she made no trouble about following them. For an instant, she had the impulse to go to the cardinal and tell him everything—but a disclosure from her would lead to a disclosure from Athos. If she accused him of attempting to hang her, he would reveal that she was branded. She thought it better, for the moment, to keep silent, depart discreetly, and accomplish her difficult mission with her usual skill. Then, everything having been completed to the satisfaction of the cardinal, she could return to claim her vengeance.
So they traveled all night, and by seven in the morning she was at Fort de La Pointe. By eight she had embarked, and by nine o’clock the vessel, which had been provided with letters of marque by the cardinal, and which was supposed to be sailing for Bayonne, raised anchor and set its course for England.
XLVI
The Bastion of Saint-Gervais
On arriving at the quarters of his three friends, d’Artagnan found them waiting for him in the common room. Athos was deliberating, Aramis was reading prayers from a charming little book of hours bound in
blue velvet, and Porthos was curling his mustache.
“By God, Messieurs, I hope what you have to tell me is worth the trouble,” d’Artagnan said, “or I won’t forgive you for summoning me here instead of letting me get some rest, after a night spent taking a bastion and then demolishing its defenses. It’s a shame you weren’t there, Gentlemen—it was warm work!”
“Where we were, it wasn’t exactly cold!” replied Porthos, giving his mustache the peculiar twist that was one of his trademarks.
“Chut!” Athos said.
D’Artagnan looked at the lines on the musketeer’s brow and said, “Uh-oh. There’s something new, isn’t there?”
“Aramis,” said Athos, “the day before yesterday you took breakfast at the Heretic’s Inn, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Personally, I ate very little. It was a day of fasting, and they had only meat.”
“What?” said Athos. “We’re at a seaport, and you couldn’t get fish?”
“It’s said that the dyke Monsieur le Cardinal is building100 to block entry to the port has scared all the fish out to sea,” Aramis said mildly, resuming his pious studies.
“That’s not really what I want to know, Aramis,” said Athos. “I want to know if anyone intruded on you, or if you were left to yourself.”
“Ah, I see what you’re getting at. No, I was not interrupted or importuned; the Heretic should suit us well.”
“Then let’s go to the Heretic,” Athos said. “The walls here are thin as paper.”
D’Artagnan was familiar with his friend’s ways, and knew by these words, and a subtle gesture, that the situation was serious. He went out arm in arm with Athos without saying a word. Porthos followed, chatting with Aramis.
They met Grimaud en route. Athos made a sign to him to follow and Grimaud obeyed silently, as usual. By this time the poor fellow had nearly forgotten how to speak.
They arrived at the Heretic at about seven in the morning, as dawn began to lighten the sky. The three friends ordered breakfast and went into a room where the host said they wouldn’t be disturbed.