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Milady dreamed that she at length had d'Artagnan in her power,
that she was present at his execution; and it was the sight of
his odious blood, flowing beneath the ax of the headsman, which
spread that charming smile upon her lips.

She slept as a prisoner sleeps, rocked by his first hope.

In the morning, when they entered her chamber she was still in
bed. Felton remained in the corridor. He brought with him the
woman of whom he had spoken the evening before, and who had just
arrived; this woman entered, and approaching Milady's bed,
offered her services.

Milady was habitually pale; her complexion might therefore
deceive a person who saw her for the first time.

"I am in a fever," said she; "I have not slept a single instant
during all this long night. I suffer horribly. Are you likely
to be more humane to me than others were yesterday? All I ask is
permission to remain abed."

"Would you like to have a physician called?" said the woman.

Felton listened to this dialogue without speaking a word.

Milady reflected that the more people she had around her the more
she would have to work upon, and Lord de Winter would redouble
his watch. Besides, the physician might declare the ailment
feigned; and Milady, after having lost the first trick, was not
willing to lose the second.

"Go and fetch a physician?" said she. "What could be the good of
that? These gentlemen declared yesterday that my illness was a
comedy; it would be just the same today, no doubt--for since
yesterday evening they have had plenty of time to send for a

"Then," said Felton, who became impatient, "say yourself, madame,
what treatment you wish followed."

"Eh, how can I tell? My God! I know that I suffer, that's all.
Give me anything you like, it is of little consequence."

"Go and fetch Lord de Winter," said Felton, tired of these
eternal complaints.

"Oh, no, no!" cried Milady; "no, sir, do not call him, I conjure
you. I am well, I want nothing; do not call him."

She gave so much vehemence, such magnetic eloquence to this
exclamation, that Felton in spite of himself advanced some steps
into the room.

"He has come!" thought Milady.

"Meanwhile, madame, if you really suffer," said Felton, "a
physician shall be sent for; and if you deceive us--well, it will
be the worse for you. But at least we shall not have to reproach
ourselves with anything."

Milady made no reply, but turning her beautiful head round upon
her pillow, she burst into tears, and uttered heartbreaking sobs.

Felton surveyed her for an instant with his usual impassiveness;
then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he went
out. The woman followed him, and Lord de Winter did not appear.

"I fancy I begin to see my way," murmured Milady, with a savage
joy, burying herself under the clothes to conceal from anybody
who might be watching her this burst of inward satisfaction.

Two hours passed away.

"Now it is time that the malady should be over," said she; "let
me rise, and obtain some success this very day. I have but ten
days, and this evening two of them will be gone."

In the morning, when they entered Milady's chamber they had
brought her breakfast. Now, she thought, they could not long
delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then

Milady was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without
observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made
a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it
having been brought in ready spread.

Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful,
pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton approached her, and said, "Lord de Winter, who is a
Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of
the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you,
has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your
Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual."

At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table
near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced
the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which he
accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more
attentively at the officer.

By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme
simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and
impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had
so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of
the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St.
Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.

She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people
of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are
to decide their fortunes or their lives.

Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon
Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was
about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was
peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to
her lips:

"I?" said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that
which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, "I,
sir? MY MASS? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows
very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he
wishes to lay for me!"

"And of what religion are you, then, madame?" asked Felton, with
an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself
he could not entirely conceal.

"I will tell it," cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, "on
the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith."

The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the
space she had opened for herself by this single word.

The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his
look alone had spoken.

"I am in the hands of my enemies," continued she, with that tone
of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans.
"Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is
the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this
book," added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but
without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, "you
may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you
are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter--the accomplice in
his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies."

Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of
repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively.

Lord de Winter came toward five o'clock in the evening. Milady
had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct.
She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her

"It appears," said the baron, seating himself in the armchair
opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs
carelessly upon the hearth, "it appears we have made a little

"What do you mean, sir!"

"I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your
religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a
third husband, have you?"

"Explain yourself, my Lord," replied the prisoner, with majesty;
"for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand

"Then you have no religion at all; I like that best," replied
Lord de Winter, laughing.

"Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,"
replied Milady, frigidly.

"Oh, I confess it is all the same to me."

"Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your
debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it."

"What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth!
Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!"

"You only speak thus because you are overheard," coolly replied
Milady; "and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen
against me."

"My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a
poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy
this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where
you ought to be, and my task will be completed."

"Infamous task! impious task!" cried Milady, with the exultation
of a victim who provokes his judge.

"My word," said de Winter, rising, "I think the hussy is going
mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I'll remove
you to a dungeon. It's my Spanish wine that has got into your
head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is
not dangerous, and will have no bad effects."

And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a
very knightly habit.

Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of
this scene. Milady had guessed aright.

"Yes, go, go,!" said she to her brother; "the effects ARE drawing
near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them
until it is too late to shun them."

Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milady's
supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying
her prayers aloud--prayers which she had learned of an old
servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She
appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to
what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should
not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly
with the soldiers.

Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to
the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty
at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to
listen. For the moment she wished nothing better. She arose,
came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.

An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that
this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. He feared,
then, to see her too often.

She turned toward the wall to smile--for there was in this smile
such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have
betrayed her.

She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that
moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard
but the eternal murmur of the waves--that immense breaking of the
ocean--with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began
the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the

"Thou leavest thy servants, Lord,
To see if they be strong;
But soon thou dost afford
Thy hand to lead them on."

These verses were not excellent--very far from it; but as it is
well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their

While singing, Milady listened. The soldier on guard at her door
stopped, as if he had been changed into stone. Milady was then
able to judge of the effect she had produced.

Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and
feeling. It appeared to her that the sounds spread to a distance
beneath the vaulted roofs, and carried with them a magic charm to
soften the hearts of her jailers. It however likewise appeared
that the soldier on duty--a zealous Catholic, no doubt--shook off
the charm, for through the door he called: "Hold your tongue,
madame! Your song is as dismal as a 'De profundis'; and if
besides the pleasure of being in garrison here, we must hear such
things as these, no mortal can hold out."

"Silence!" then exclaimed another stern voice which Milady
recognized as that of Felton. "What are you meddling with,
stupid? Did anybody order you to prevent that woman from
singing? No. You were told to guard her--to fire at her if she
attempted to fly. Guard her! If she flies, kill her; but don't
exceed your orders."

An expression of unspeakable joy lightened the countenance of
Milady; but this expression was fleeting as the reflection of
lightning. Without appearing to have heard the dialogue, of
which she had not lost a word, she began again, giving to her
voice all the charm, all the power, all the seduction the demon
had bestowed upon it:

"For all my tears, my cares,
My exile, and my chains,
I have my youth, my prayers,
And God, who counts my pains."

Her voice, of immense power and sublime expression, gave to the
rude, unpolished poetry of these psalms a magic and an effect
which the most exalted Puritans rarely found in the songs of
their brethren, and which they were forced to ornament with all
the resources of their imagination. Felton believed he heard the
singing of the angel who consoled the three Hebrews in the

Milady continued:

"One day our doors will ope,
With God come our desire;
And if betrays that hope,
To death we can aspire."

This verse, into which the terrible enchantress threw her whole
soul, completed the trouble which had seized the heart of the
young officer. He opened the door quickly; and Milady saw him
appear, pale as usual, but with his eye inflamed and almost wild.

"Why do you sing thus, and with such a voice?" said he.

"Your pardon, sir," said Milady, with mildness. "I forgot that
my songs are out of place in this castle. I have perhaps
offended you in your creed; but it was without wishing to do so,
I swear. Pardon me, then, a fault which is perhaps great, but
which certainly was involuntary."

Milady was so beautiful at this moment, the religious ecstasy in
which she appeared to be plunged gave such an expression to her
countenance, that Felton was so dazzled that he fancied he beheld
the angel whom he had only just before heard.

"Yes, yes," said he; "you disturb, you agitate the people who
live in the castle."

The poor, senseless young man was not aware of the incoherence of
his words, while Milady was reading with her lynx's eyes the very
depths of his heart.

"I will be silent, then," said Milady, casting down her eyes with
all the sweetness she could give to her voice, with all the
resignation she could impress upon her manner.

"No, no, madame," said Felton, "only do not sing so loud,
particularly at night."

And at these words Felton, feeling that he could not long
maintain his severity toward his prisoner, rushed out of the

"You have done right, Lieutenant," said the soldier. "Such songs
disturb the mind; and yet we become accustomed to them, her voice
is so beautiful."

The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas
General Fiction

Romance Literatures
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