“Swear.”
“I swear by our God. Are you content?”
“I am,” said Felton. “Tonight, then.”
And he darted from the chamber, closed the door, and stood outside, the soldier’s half-pike in his hand, as if he’d been mounting guard in his place.
When the soldier came back, Felton returned his weapon to him.
Then, watching through the grating, Milady saw the young man cross himself fervently, then hurry off down the corridor as if transported by joy.
As for Milady, she returned to her place with a smile of savage contempt on her lips, and blasphemously repeated the name of God, by whom she’d just sworn, without once in her life ever trying to know Him: “My God!” she said. “What a witless fanatic! My God? My God is myself, and whoever will aid me in my revenge!”
LVI
The Fifth Day of Captivity
Milady’s victory was at least half achieved, and with this success, her strength was redoubled.
It wasn’t difficult to make conquests, as she previously had, of men who were ready to be seduced, and whose schooling in court gallantry led them easily into her snares. Milady was sufficiently beautiful to meet little resistance from the flesh, and sufficiently clever to defeat the defenses of the mind.
But this time she had to contend with a fundamentally primitive nature, hardened by rigid austerity. Religion and its strictures had made Felton a man inaccessible to ordinary seductions. The rarefied mind of this visionary seethed with projects so vast and numinous there was no room for earthly love, an emotion that grows from leisure and is nourished by self-deceit. By her false virtue, Milady had succeeded in reversing the opinion of a man prejudiced against her, and by her sensual beauty had unlocked the heart of a man until now chaste and pure. In this contest with the most difficult adversary that nature and religion could present to her, she had had to deploy the full extent of her powers, till then unknown even to herself.
Nevertheless, many times during that evening she despaired of destiny, and of herself. She didn’t invoke God, as we know, but she had faith in the genius of evil, that vast sovereignty that reigns over all the details of human life, a power so great that, as in the Arabian fable, it needs no more than a single pomegranate seed from which to reconstruct a ruined world.
Once she’d readied herself to receive Felton, Milady was able to consider the disposal of her forces for the following day. She knew she had only two more days: Buckingham would sign that order—all the more readily as it bore a false name, so he couldn’t recognize the woman in question—and the baron would embark her immediately.
She was well aware that a woman sentenced to transportation would find it far more difficult to employ seduction as a means of freeing herself than an apparently virtuous woman glowing in the radiance of her beauty—a beauty enhanced all the more by being graced by the height of fashion, and gilded with the enchanting halo of aristocratic rank. Being condemned to onerous and shameful punishment is no impediment to beauty, but it’s an immense obstacle to exercising that beauty’s power. Like all people of genuine talent, Milady was well aware of the limitations of its nature. To her, poverty was poison, a condition that would rob her of two-thirds of her power and grandeur. Milady was only a queen among queens; to dominate others she must revel in the glory of satisfied pride. Defeating her inferiors was more of a humiliation than a pleasure for her.
Of course, she would find a way to return from exile: she never doubted that for a moment. But how long would it take her? To a nature as active and ambitious as Milady’s, any day not spent advancing toward her goal was an abomination. What word, then, would be strong enough to describe days spent in reverse? To lose a year, two years, three years—one might as well say an eternity! To return long after d’Artagnan and his friends, happy and triumphant, had received from the queen the reward so well earned for the services rendered her, was the sort of maddening idea that a woman like Milady could not bear. The very thought of it inspired such a storm of rage within her that her strength was multiplied many times over, and she could have burst the walls of her prison if her mortal flesh had been able, for a single instant, to incarnate the power of her hatred.
She was piqued even more by the thought of the cardinal. What must he think of her silence? The cardinal: so mistrustful, so uneasy, so suspicious, who was not only her sole support and sole protector in the present, but the principal instrument of her fortune—and her vengeance—in the future. She knew him; she knew it would be useless upon her return to argue that she’d been imprisoned, that she’d suffered terribly on his behalf. The cardinal would merely reply, with the calm mockery of the skeptic, fortified by both power and genius: “You should never have allowed yourself to be taken.”
So Milady gathered all her energies and repeated in the depths of her mind the name of Felton, the only glimmer of light that penetrated into the hell in which she found herself. And, like a serpent that twists and clenches its coils to test its powers of constriction, she mentally enveloped Felton in the thousand tightening turns of her inventive imagination.
Time slowly passed: as each one marched by the hours seemed to startle the clock awake, every blow of its brazen hammer resounding in the heart of the prisoner.
At nine o’clock, Lord Winter made his customary visit. He tested the bars of the window, sounded the floor and the walls, and inspected the chimney and the door, without him or Milady saying a single word throughout his long and thorough examination.
Doubtless both of them understood that the situation had become too grave to waste time in useless words and pointless anger.
“Well,” said the baron, on leaving her, “you won’t escape this night!”
At ten o’clock, Felton came to supervise the changing of the guard. She recognized his footstep; she was as familiar with it now as a mistress is with that of her lover, though Milady detested and despised this weak-minded fanatic.
But it was not yet the appointed hour; Felton would not come in.
Two hours later, as midnight sounded, the sentry was relieved.
Now the hour had come, and Milady fell prey to impatience.
The new sentry began his march in the corridor.
At the end of ten minutes, Felton came.
Milady was more than ready.
“Listen,” said the young man to the sentry, “you are not, under any conditions, to leave this door. You know that last night Milord punished a soldier for leaving his post for a moment, even though I took his place during his absence.”
“Yes, I know that,” the soldier said.
“I advise you, then, to maintain the strictest possible watch. I,” he added, “am going inside for a second visit to this woman. I’m afraid she has sinister intentions on her own life, and I’ve received orders to keep close watch on her.”
Good, thought Milady. Our righteous Puritan has learned how to lie.
As for the soldier, he only smiled. “Lord love us, Lieutenant,” he said, “I never heard of an easier order to carry out, especially if Milord has authorized you to look in her bed.”
Felton blushed. Under any other circumstance he’d have reprimanded the soldier for making such a crude joke, but now his conscience spoke too loud for him to dare such a reproach. “If I call, come in,” he said. “If anyone else comes, call me.”
“Aye-aye, Lieutenant,” said the soldier.
Felton entered the chamber.
Milady rose. “You’ve come?” she said.
“I promised you I’d come,” Felton said, “and I am here.”
“You promised me something else besides.”
“My God! What?” said the young man, who, in spite of his self-control, felt his knees tremble and cold sweat bead his brow.
“You promised to bring me a knife, and to leave it with me after we talked.”
“Don’t speak of that, Madame,” said Felton. “There is no situation, no matter how terrible it may be, that can justify one of God’s
creatures taking her own life. I’ve thought hard about this, and I could never be guilty of being involved in such a sin.”
“Oh? You’ve thought about this?” said the prisoner, seating herself on her armchair with a smile of disdain. “I, too, have thought.”
“About what?”
“That I have nothing to say to a man who doesn’t keep his word.”
“O God, my God!” murmured Felton.
“You may retire,” said Milady. “I have no more to say.”
“Here is the knife!” said Felton, drawing the weapon from his pocket. He had brought it, as promised, but still he hesitated to give it to the prisoner.
“Let me see it,” said Milady.
“To what end?”
“Upon my honor, I’ll return it to you instantly. You can set it on that table, and stay between it and me.”
Felton handed the weapon to Milady, who tested its edge, then tried its point on the end of her finger.
“Good,” she said, returning the knife to the young officer. “That’s fine steel; you’re a faithful friend, Felton.”
Felton took back the weapon and laid it on the table, as agreed. Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction. “Now,” she said, “listen to me.”
These words were entirely unnecessary, as the young officer stood before her expectantly, ready to devour her every word.
“Felton,” Milady said, with a sad solemnity, “suppose your sister, the daughter of your father, said to you, ‘While still young and unfortunately fair to look at, I was lured into a snare. I resisted; though ambushed and threatened again and again, I resisted; though the religion I serve, and the God I adore, were blasphemed because I prayed for help from that religion and that God, I resisted; and then I was subjected to the vilest outrages, for if they couldn’t crush my soul, they could forever defile my body. In the end . . .”
Milady stopped, and a bitter smile touched her lips.
“In the end,” Felton said, “in the end—what did they do?”
“In the end, they decided to paralyze the resistance they couldn’t overcome. One night, they introduced a powerful narcotic into my drinking water. I’d scarcely finished my meal when I felt myself slowly falling into a strange torpor. Though I wasn’t suspicious at first, I felt a vague fear, and tried to fight off sleep.
“I got up and tried to get to the window to call for help, but my legs refused to carry me. It seemed as if the ceiling was descending on my head, crushing me with its weight. I reached out my arms, I tried to speak, but all I could make were inarticulate sounds. An irresistible drowsiness came over me. Feeling as if I was about to fall, I leaned on a chair, but soon my arms grew numb and even that support failed me. I fell to one knee, then both; I tried to pray, but my tongue was frozen. So God must have neither heard nor seen me, and I slipped to the floor, succumbing to a sleep that resembled death.
“Of all that happened during that sleep, or the time that passed while it lasted, I have no memory. I recall nothing until I awoke in a luxurious bed, in a round chamber, sumptuously furnished, and into which light penetrated only through an opening in the ceiling. No door seemed to give entrance into this room. You might call it a magnificent prison.
“It was a long time before I was able to clearly make out what sort of place I found myself in, or take in the details I now describe. I couldn’t seem to fully awaken, and my mind struggled to throw off the heavy shadows of sleep. I had vague recollections of movement, of a rolling carriage, of a horrible dream that had drained away all my strength. But all this was so dark and indistinct in my mind that the events seemed to belong to another life than mine, though merged somehow with my own in a fantastic distortion of reality.
“At times, my condition seemed so strange that I thought I was dreaming. I staggered to my feet. My clothes were near me, on a chair. I didn’t remember either undressing or going to bed. Then, little by little, reality dawned on me, and my modesty was outraged. I was no longer in the house where I lived! As far as I could tell by the light of the sun through the opening above, the day was already mostly gone. It was evening when I’d fallen prey to sleep, so I must have slept for almost twenty-four hours. What had happened during this long slumber?
“I dressed as rapidly as I could, but my dizziness and slow movements showed that the narcotic hadn’t yet entirely worn off. My chamber had apparently been furnished for a woman, and the most accomplished coquette couldn’t have wished for anything more than what could be found in that apartment.
“Certainly, I wasn’t the first captive to find herself locked in this splendid prison—but you understand, Felton, that the more beautiful the prison seemed, the greater was my fear.
“For it was a prison, and I tried in vain to escape. I sounded all the walls, hoping to discover a door, but everywhere they seemed solid.
“I went around that chamber maybe twenty times, looking for a way out—but there was none. I sank, exhausted with fatigue and terror, into an armchair.
“Now night was coming fast, and with the night my terrors redoubled. I didn’t know if it was safe to stay where I was seated; it seemed to me I was surrounded by unknown dangers, which I might fall prey to at any moment. Though I’d eaten nothing since the night before, my fear overrode all feelings of hunger.
“No noise came from outside that might enable me to measure the passage of time. I could only suppose it was seven or eight o’clock in the evening, as it was the month of October and it was already dark.
“All at once, the creak of a door turning on its hinges made me start. A globe of flame appeared above the glazed opening in the ceiling, throwing a bright light into my chamber, and I realized with terror that a man was standing within a few paces of me.
“A table, with two covered dishes bearing a complete dinner, stood as if by magic in the middle of the chamber.
“The man was he who had pursued me for a full year, he who had vowed my dishonor, and who, at the first words from his mouth, made me understand that he had achieved it the previous night.”
“Lascivious beast!” murmured Felton.
“A beast? Oh, yes!” Milady cried. The young officer’s soul seemed to hang on her every word, so fascinated was he by this incredible story.
“Yes, a lascivious beast, who seemed to think that, having conquered me in my sleep, his battle was won. He came in hopes I would be overcome by my shame, now that my dishonor had been consummated. He came to offer his fortune in exchange for my love.
“All the disgust that the heart of a woman can contain, I poured in words of contempt and disdain on this man. No doubt he was used to such reproaches, for he was calm and smiling as he listened to me, arms crossed on his chest. Then, when he thought I was finished, he advanced toward me. I sprang toward the table, seized a knife, and placed it at my breast.
“‘Take one step more,’ I said, ‘and on top of my dishonor, you’ll have my death to reproach yourself with.’
“He couldn’t doubt it, for my look, my voice, my entire being conveyed a conviction that would persuade even the most perverse mind. He stopped.
“‘Your death!’ he said to me. ‘Oh, no! You’re far too charming a mistress for me to consent to lose you this way, after having possessed you only once. Adieu, sweetheart! I’ll wait to pay you another visit until your mood has improved.’
“At these words, he blew a whistle. The globe of flame that lit the room rose and disappeared, and I found myself again in darkness. The sound of the door opening and closing was repeated an instant later, then the flaming globe descended anew, and I found myself alone.
“It was a horrible moment. If I’d had any doubts about my terrible situation, those doubts had vanished in the face of the desperate reality. I was in the power of a man whom I not only detested, but actively despised—a man capable of anything, and who had already given me proof of the extent of his depravity.”
“But who was this man?” demanded Felton.
&nbs
p; “I passed the night in a chair, starting at the smallest sound—for, toward midnight, the lamp had been put out, and I was again in darkness. But the night passed without any fresh attempts at outrage on the part of my persecutor. Day came, and I saw the table had disappeared—but I still had the knife in my hand.
“That knife was my only hope.
“I was exhausted. My eyes burned from insomnia, as I hadn’t dared sleep for a single moment. But the light of day reassured me and I threw myself on the bed, though without losing hold of my ally, the knife, which I hid under my pillow.
“When I awoke, a fresh table had appeared.
“This time, in spite of my terrors, in spite of my anguish, I felt a consuming hunger. It was forty-eight hours since I’d eaten. I had some bread and some fruit; then, recalling the narcotic dissolved in the water I’d drunk, I shunned the water that was on the table and filled my glass at a marble fountain in the wall, near my vanity.
“However, despite this precaution, I was prey for some time to an awful anxiety. But in this case, my dread was unfounded, and I passed the day without experiencing any of the things I feared.
“I did take the precaution of emptying half the water from the carafe, so my suspicions might not be noticed.
“The evening came, and with it, the dark. But no matter how deep the darkness, my eyes grew used to it. I saw, through the shadows, the table sink through the floor. A quarter-hour later it reappeared, bearing my supper. An instant after that, thanks to the lamp, my chamber was once again illuminated.
“I resolved to eat only those items that couldn’t possibly have had a sedative introduced into them. My meal consisted of two eggs and some fruit. I then filled another glass of water at my trusty fountain and drank it.
“After the first few swallows, I noticed that it didn’t seem to taste the same as it had that morning. I was seized by suspicion and stopped, but I had already drunk half the glass.
“I threw away the rest with horror, and waited, the cold sweat of fear on my brow.
“No doubt some invisible watcher had observed me drawing my water from the fountain and had taken advantage of my confidence in it to ensure my ruin—so coldly calculated, so cruelly pursued.