“And my reply to you, Sir, is that this abuse of power, this exile under a false name, is infamous!”
“Would you prefer to be called by your true name and be hanged, Milady? As you know, the English laws on fraudulent marriage are stern and rigorous. Speak freely! Although my own name, or rather my brother’s name, would be dragged through the mud, I’ll risk the scandal of public trial to be sure of being rid of you.”
Milady didn’t reply, but went pale as a corpse.
“Oh! I see you prefer a sentence of transportation. Excellent, Madame. There’s an old proverb that says travel seasons the youth, and my faith! It’s the right decision. After all, life is good. That’s why I take such care that you don’t rob me of mine.
“Which just leaves the business of the five shillings a day. You think that’s a bit parsimonious, don’t you? Well, I’d rather not give you the means of corrupting your guardians. Besides, you’ll still have your beauty, and can seduce them with your charms. Use those, if your disappointment in that regard with Felton hasn’t been too discouraging.”
So Felton hasn’t talked, Milady thought. Nothing is lost, then.
“And now, Madame, au revoir. I’ll return tomorrow to let you know when the messenger is on his way.” Lord Winter rose, bowed ironically, and left.
Milady breathed again. She still had four days ahead of her; four days would be enough for her to complete Felton’s seduction.
Then a terrible thought occurred to her: that Lord Winter might send Felton himself to get the warrant signed by Buckingham. Once interrupted, the magic of her seduction would fail, and Felton would escape her.
Only one thing reassured her: Felton had not talked.
Not wanting to appear too dismayed by Lord Winter’s threats, she sat down at the table and ate.
Then, as she’d done the night before, she fell to her knees and recited her prayers aloud. As on the night before, the soldier on guard paused in his step to listen to her.
Soon she heard lighter footsteps than those of the sentry come up the corridor and stop at her door.
That’s him, she said to herself.
And she began the same hymns that had so violently aroused Felton the night before.
But though her voice, sweet, full, and sonorous, was as harmonious and heartrending as ever, the door stayed closed. Nonetheless, in one of the furtive glances she darted at the grate in the door, Milady thought she saw the young man’s ardent eyes through the grille. But whether this was reality or illusion, what was certain was that this time he had enough self-control not to enter.
Only, a few moments after she’d finished her hymn, Milady thought she heard a profound sigh. Then the same footsteps she’d heard approach receded, slowly, as if with regret.
LV
The Fourth Day of Captivity
The next day, when Felton entered Milady’s chamber, he found her standing on a chair, holding in her hands a cord woven from cambric handkerchiefs that had been torn into strips, twisted, and tied end to end. At the noise Felton made entering the door, Milady jumped lightly down from the chair, trying to hide the improvised cord behind her.
The young man was even more pale than usual, and his eyes, red from insomnia, showed that he’d passed a feverish night.
However, his face was taut with determination, his expression more austere than ever.
He advanced slowly on Milady, who had sat down, and taking an end of the murderous cord, which by mistake or by design was partly visible, he asked coldly, “What is this, Madame?”
“That? Nothing,” said Milady, smiling that agonized smile she had practiced so well. “Boredom is the mortal enemy of all prisoners. I . . . was bored, and amused myself by plaiting that cord.”
Felton turned his eyes toward the chamber wall beneath which he’d found Milady on the chair where she now sat. Above her head, embedded in the wall, he saw a gilded hook for hanging clothes or arms.
He started—and the prisoner saw him start, for though her eyes were cast down, nothing escaped her.
“What were you doing, standing on that chair?” he demanded.
“What’s that to you?” Milady replied.
“Because,” said Felton, “I want to know.”
“Please don’t question me,” said the prisoner. “You know that my people, that true Christians, are forbidden from falsehood.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you were about to do: you were going to complete that fatal task you’ve been contemplating. But remember, Madame, if our God forbids us from falsehood, he even more severely yet forbids us from suicide.”
“When God sees one of his creatures unjustly persecuted, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, Sir,” replied Milady, in a tone of deep conviction, “God will pardon the suicide—for then the suicide becomes a martyr.”
“You say either too much or too little. Speak, Madame! In the name of heaven, explain yourself.”
“Am I to tell you my trials, and have you treat them as fables? Am I to tell you my plans, and have you denounce them to my persecutor? No, Sir. Besides, what importance can the life or death of a condemned prisoner have for you? You’re only responsible for my body, aren’t you? As long as you can present them with a cadaver that’s recognizably mine, there’s nothing more they can ask of you. You’ll probably even receive a bonus.”
“Me, Madame!” cried Felton. “You imagine I’d accept a price for your life! You can’t mean what you’re saying.”
“Leave me to do as I will, Felton,” Milady said desperately. “Every soldier is ambitious, isn’t he? You’re a lieutenant now—well, you’ll carry my coffin as a captain!”
“What have I done to you,” Felton said earnestly, “that you should charge me with such a responsibility, before man and before God? In a few days you’ll be gone from here, Madame. Your life will no longer be under my care, and,” he added with a sigh, “then you can do with it what you will.”
“So!” cried Milady, as if she couldn’t suppress her righteous indignation. “You, a pious man, who call yourself just, you ask only one thing: not to be held accountable for, or inconvenienced by, my death!”
“It’s my duty to watch over your life, Madame, and I will watch over it.”
“But don’t you understand the nature of the duty you’re fulfilling? It’s cruel enough if I’m guilty—but what name can you give it, what name will the Lord give it, if I’m innocent?”
“I’m a soldier, Madame, and I follow the orders I’m given.”
“Do you believe, then, that on Judgment Day God will make a distinction between blind executioners and corrupt judges? You won’t let me slay my body, but you’re willing to be the agent of those who would slay my soul!”
“But I repeat to you,” Felton said with agitation, “that no danger threatens you. I’d answer for Lord Winter as I would for myself.” “You blind fool!” Milady cried. “You poor, blind fool, who dares to answer for another man, when even the wisest men of God hesitate to answer for themselves! You take the side of the wealthy and strong, and oppress the poor and weak.”
“Impossible, Madame. Impossible,” murmured Felton, who felt in his heart the justice of this argument. “Though you’re a prisoner, and I can’t give you your freedom, still, you’re alive, and I won’t assist at your death!”
“Yes,” cried Milady, “but I’ll lose something more precious to me than life: I’ll lose my honor, Felton. And it’s you, you who I’ll hold responsible, before God and man, for my shame and my ignominy.”
This time Felton, impassive though he was—or appeared to be— couldn’t resist the urgent desire that already secretly possessed him. To see this woman, this fair and beautiful vision, torn between tears and terror, lifted by holy exaltation one moment and then crushed by grief the next, was too much to bear for a religious mystic. It was too much for a mind already undermined by the fervid dreams of an ecstatic faith, too much for a heart corrod
ed by worship of a God who burns, and hatred for men who oppress.
Milady saw his turmoil, and sensed by intuition the flames of the conflicting passions that burned in the blood of the young fanatic. And like an experienced general who, seeing the enemy on the verge of surrender, redoubles the attack, she rose, beautiful as an ancient priestess, radiant as a saintly virgin, arms extended, throat uncovered, and hair unbound. Drawing her robe modestly across her breasts, her eyes lit by that fire that had already wrought such havoc in the young Puritan’s heart, she advanced toward him, singing to him in that melodious voice, with desperate urgency and a consuming energy:
Deliver unto Baal the martyr
Sacrifice to the lions the victim
God will make you repent his daughter
When I cry from the depth of affliction
Felton stood before this apparition as if petrified.
“Who are you? Who are you?” he cried, clasping his hands. “Are you a messenger from God, or an envoy from Hell? Are you angel or devil, Eloas or Astarte?”
“Don’t you recognize me, Felton? I’m neither angel nor demon, I’m a daughter of the earth, a sister of your faith, no more.”
“Yes! Yes!” said Felton. “I doubted, but now I believe!”
“You believe, and yet you are still the accomplice of that child of Belial, who goes by the name of Lord Winter! You believe, but you leave me in the hands of my enemies, of the enemy of England—the enemy of God! You believe, but you deliver me unto him who soils the world with his heresies and debaucheries, to that infamous Sar-danapalus, whom the deceived call the Duke of Buckingham, and the righteous call Antichrist!”
“Me, deliver you to Buckingham? What are you saying?”
“They have eyes,” cried Milady, “yet they will not see. They have ears, yet they will not hear.”
“Yes . . . yes!” said Felton, passing his hands across his beaded brow, as if to wipe away his last doubts with the moisture. “Yes, I recognize that voice that speaks to me in my dreams. I recognize the face of the angel who appears to me each night, calling out to my soul so that I cannot sleep: ‘Strike! Save England! Save yourself, lest you die with a debt to the Lord!’ Speak, oh, speak!” he cried, “for now I can understand you.”
A flash of infernal joy, rapid as thought, gleamed from Milady’s eyes.
However fleeting this murderous flash, Felton saw it, and started as if he’d caught a glimpse of the abysses of this woman’s heart. All at once, he recalled Lord Winter’s warnings about Milady’s seductions, and her first attempts after her arrival. He recoiled, bowing his head as if to look down—but he couldn’t stop gazing at her. Fascinated by this strange creature, he couldn’t tear his eyes from hers.
Milady was not the woman to mistake the meaning of this hesitation. Beneath her surface passions, her icy coolness never left her. Before Felton could reply, and before she was forced to resume the dialogue’s exalted tone, so difficult to maintain, she wilted and let her hands fall to her sides.
Then, as if the weakness of the woman had overcome the inspiration of the believer, she said, “But no—it’s not for me to be the Judith who delivers Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the Lord is too heavy for my hands. Let me escape dishonor by death, let me take refuge in martyrdom. I ask neither for freedom, as the guilty would, nor for vengeance, like a pagan. Let me die, that’s all. I beg you, on my knees—let me die, and my last sigh will be a blessing on you, my savior.”
At this voice, so sweet and submissive, and this look, so timid and downcast, Felton rebuked himself. Little by little the enchantress had draped herself in that magic cloak that she assumed and discarded at will: her beauty, her sweetness, her sadness, and above all the irresistible attraction of her mystical sensuality, the most alluring of all fascinations.
“Alas!” said Felton. “Even if you prove to me that you’re a victim, the only thing I can do is pity you! But Lord Winter has laid cruel charges against you. I know you’re a Christian, and my sister in religion; I feel myself drawn to you—I, who’ve never loved anyone but my benefactor, and have never encountered any in this life but the treacherous and impious. But you, Madame, who seem so pure, so beautiful, must have done terrible things for Lord Winter to treat you this way.”
“They have eyes,” Milady repeated, in a tone of indescribable sadness, “yet will not see. They have ears, yet will not hear.”
“Tell me, then,” cried the young officer. “Speak! Speak!” “Confide my shame to you?” Milady said, a modest blush coloring her cheek. “You know the crime of one often becomes the shame of another. Do I, a woman, dare confide my secret shame to you, a man? Oh!” Abashed, she covered her beautiful eyes with her hands. “Oh, never! Never! I couldn’t!”
“Not even to me? To a brother?” said Felton.
Milady regarded him for a long moment with an expression the young officer took for doubt, but which really combined simple observation with the will to fascinate.
Now Felton became the supplicant, and joined his hands. “Then,” said Milady, “I will confide in my brother. I will dare . . .”
Then once again, they heard the footsteps of Lord Winter. But this time, Milady’s forbidding brother-in-law didn’t content himself, as he had the day before, with passing the door and moving on. He stopped, exchanged a few words with the sentry—then the door opened, and he appeared.
During the brief exchange with the guard, Felton quickly drew away, and when Lord Winter entered, he was several paces from the prisoner.
The baron entered slowly, looking intently at Milady and the young officer. “You’ve been in here quite a while, John,” he said. “Has this woman been relating her crimes to you? In that case I could understand the length of the conversation.”
Felton started, and Milady sensed she was lost if she didn’t come to aid of the dismayed Puritan.
“Ah! You’re afraid your prisoner will escape!” she said. “Well, ask your worthy jailer what favor I was just begging of him.”
“She was asking for a favor?” the baron said suspiciously.
“Yes, Milord,” the confused young man replied.
“And what favor would that be?” asked Lord Winter.
“A knife,” said Felton, “which she promised to return through the grating a minute later.”
“Then there’s someone hidden here, whose throat this gracious lady wants to cut,” Lord Winter said in a mocking, contemptuous voice.
“Yes—my own,” replied Milady.
“I’ve offered you a choice between America and the gallows at Tyburn,” replied Lord Winter. “Choose Tyburn, Milady—believe me, the rope is more certain than the knife.”
Felton blanched and took a step forward, remembering that when he’d entered, Milady had been holding a rope.
“You’re right,” she said. “I’ve already thought about that.” Then she added, quietly, “And I’ll think about it again.”
Felton felt a shiver to the marrow of his bones. Lord Winter probably detected it, for he said, “Don’t trust that feeling, John. I rely on you, but take care! I’ve warned you! Be brave, my lad—in three more days we’ll be rid of this creature. Where I’m sending her, she can harm no one.”
“Hear his voice!” Milady exclaimed, in such a way that the baron might think she was addressing heaven, but which Felton would understand was addressed to him.
Felton hung his head, and seemed lost in thought.
The baron took the young officer by the arm and left, watching Milady over his shoulder so as not to lose sight of her until they were gone.
“I’m afraid,” the prisoner said to herself, once the door was shut, “that I haven’t gotten as far as I’d hoped. Winter has traded his usual idiocy for an unexpected caution. It’s his desire for revenge, and new desires change a man! As for Felton, he still hesitates. At least that damned d’Artagnan was a real man. A Puritan adores only virgins, and adores them by clasping his hands before them. A musketeer loves women, and lov
es them by clasping his arms around them.”
So Milady waited impatiently, as she was afraid the entire day might pass without another sight of Felton. But, an hour after the scene just related, she heard someone speaking in a low voice at the door. Then the door opened, and she recognized the silhouette of Felton.
The young man advanced rapidly into the chamber, leaving the door open behind him and making a sign to Milady to stay silent. His face was tense.
“What do you want with me?” she said.
“Listen,” replied Felton in a low voice. “I just sent away the sentry so I could enter without anyone knowing it, and so I could talk to you without anyone overhearing us. The baron has just told me a frightful story.”
Milady assumed the resigned smile of the victim, and shook her head.
“Either you are a demon,” Felton continued, “or the baron, my benefactor . . . my father . . . is a monster. I’ve known you for four days, I have loved him for ten years. So I may hesitate between you, but don’t be alarmed—I just need to be convinced. So tonight, after midnight, I will come to see you, and you will convince me.”
“No, Felton. No, my brother. The sacrifice is too great, and I can feel what it would cost you. No, I am lost; do not be lost with me. My death will be more eloquent than my life, and the silence of a corpse will be more convincing than the words of a prisoner.”
“Be silent, Madame,” Felton commanded. “Do not speak to me that way. I’ve come to make you promise, on your honor, to swear to me by whatever you hold most sacred, that you will make no further attempts on your life.”
“I will make no such promise,” Milady said, “for no one has more respect for a pledge than I have, and if I make a promise I will keep it.”
“Very well,” said Felton, “then just promise to take no action until you’ve seen me again. If, after you’ve seen me, you still insist . . . then . . . you shall be free, and I myself will give you the weapon you demand.”
“All right,” Milady said. “I’ll wait for you.”