“Ah, monsieur,” said Planchet, “I will succeed or I will consent to be cut in quarters; and if they do cut me in quarters, be assured that not a morsel of me will speak.”
It was decided that Planchet should set out the next day, at eight o’clock in the morning, in order, as he had said, that he might during the night learn the letter by heart. He gained just twelve hours by this engagement; he was to be back on the sixteenth day, by eight o’clock in the evening.
In the morning, as he was mounting his horse, d’Artagnan, who felt at the bottom of his heart a partiality for the duke, took Planchet aside.
“Listen,” said he to him. “When you have given the letter to Lord de Winter and he has read it, you will further say to him: Watch over his Grace Lord Buckingham, for they wish to assassinate him. But this, Planchet, is so serious and important that I have not informed my friends that I would entrust this secret to you; and for a captain’s commission I would not write it.”
“Be satisfied, monsieur,” said Planchet, “you shall see if confidence can be placed in me.”
Mounted on an excellent horse, which he was to leave at the end of twenty leagues in order to take the post, Planchet set off at a gallop, his spirits a little depressed by the triple promise made him by the Musketeers, but otherwise as light-hearted as possible.
Bazin set out the next day for Tours, and was allowed eight days for performing his commission.
The four friends, during the period of these two absences, had, as may well be supposed, the eye on the watch, the nose to the wind, and the ear on the hark. Their days were passed in endeavoring to catch all that was said, in observing the proceeding of the cardinal, and in looking out for all the couriers who arrived. More than once an involuntary trembling seized them when called upon for some unexpected service. They had, besides, to look constantly to their own proper safety; Milady was a phantom which, when it had once appeared to people, did not allow them to sleep very quietly.
On the morning of the eighth day, Bazin, fresh as ever, and smiling, according to custom, entered the cabaret of the Parpaillot as the four friends were sitting down to breakfast, saying, as had been agreed upon: “Monsieur Aramis, the answer from your cousin.”
The four friends exchanged a joyful glance; half of the work was done. It is true, however, that it was the shorter and easier part.
Aramis, blushing in spite of himself, took the letter, which was in a large, coarse hand and not particular for its orthography.
“Good God!” cried he, laughing, “I quite despair of my poor Michon; she will never write like Monsieur de Voiture.”
“What does you mean by boor Michon?” said the Swiss, who was chatting with the four friends when the letter came.
“Oh, pardieu, less than nothing,” said Aramis; “a charming little seamstress, whom I love dearly and from whose hand I requested a few lines as a sort of keepsake.”
“The duvil!” said the Swiss, “if she is as great a lady as her writing is large, you are a lucky fellow, gomrade!”
Aramis read the letter, and passed it to Athos.
“See what she writes to me, Athos,” said he.
Athos cast a glance over the epistle, and to disperse all the suspicions that might have been created, read aloud:
“My cousin,
“My sister and I are skillful in interpreting dreams, and even entertain great fear of them; but of yours it may be said, I hope, every dream is an illusion. Adieu! Take care of yourself, and act so that we may from time to time hear you spoken of.
“MARIE MICHON”
“And what dream does she mean?” asked the dragoon, who had approached during the reading.
“Yez; what’s the dream?” said the Swiss.
“Well, pardieu!” said Aramis, “it was only this: I had a dream, and I related it to her.”
“Yez, yez,” said the Swiss; “it’s simple enough to dell a dream, but I neffer dream.”
“You are very fortunate,” said Athos, rising; “I wish I could say as much!”
“Neffer,” replied the Swiss, enchanted that a man like Athos could envy him anything. “Neffer, neffer!”
D’Artagnan, seeing Athos rise, did likewise, took his arm, and went out.
Porthos and Aramis remained behind to encounter the jokes of the dragoon and the Swiss.
As to Bazin, he went and lay down on a truss of straw; and as he had more imagination than the Swiss, he dreamed that Aramis, having become pope, adorned his head with a cardinal’s hat.
But, as we have said, Bazin had not, by his fortunate return, removed more than a part of the uneasiness which weighed upon the four friends. The days of expectation are long, and d’Artagnan, in particular, would have wagered that the days were forty-four hours. He forgot the necessary slowness of navigation; he exaggerated to himself the power of Milady. He credited this woman, who appeared to him the equal of a demon, with agents as supernatural as herself; at the least noise, he imagined himself about to be arrested, and that Planchet was being brought back to be confronted with himself and his friends. Still further, his confidence in the worthy Picard, at one time so great, diminished day by day. This anxiety became so great that it even extended to Aramis and Porthos. Athos alone remained unmoved, as if no danger hovered over him, and as if he breathed his customary atmosphere.
On the sixteenth day, in particular, these signs were so strong in d’Artagnan and his two friends that they could not remain quiet in one place, and wandered about like ghosts on the road by which Planchet was expected.
“Really,” said Athos to them, “you are not men but children, to let a woman terrify you so! And what does it amount to, after all? To be imprisoned. Well, but we should be taken out of prison; Madame Bonacieux was released. To be decapitated? Why, every day in the trenches we go cheerfully to expose ourselves to worse than that-for a bullet may break a leg, and I am convinced a surgeon would give us more pain in cutting off a thigh than an executioner in cutting off a head. Wait quietly, then; in two hours, in four, in six hours at latest, Planchet will be here. He promised to be here, and I have very great faith in Planchet, who appears to me to be a very good lad.”
“But if he does not come?” said d’Artagnan.
“Well, if he does not come, it will be because he has been delayed, that’s all. He may have fallen from his horse, he may have cut a caper from the deck; he may have traveled so fast against the wind as to have brought on a violent catarrh. Eh, gentlemen, let us reckon upon accidents! Life is a chaplet of little miseries which the philosopher counts with a smile. Be philosophers, as I am, gentlemen; sit down at the table and let us drink. Nothing makes the future look so bright as surveying it through a glass of chambertin.”
“That’s all very well,” replied d’Artagnan; “but I am tired of fearing when I open a fresh bottle that the wine may come from the cellar of Milady.”
“You are very fastidious,” said Athos; “such a beautiful woman!”
“A woman of mark!” said Porthos, with his loud laugh.
Athos started, passed his hand over his brow to remove the drops of perspiration that burst forth, and rose in his turn with a nervous movement he could not repress.
The day, however, passed away; and the evening came on slowly, but finally it came. The bars were filled with drinkers. Athos, who had pocketed his share of the diamond, seldom quit the Parpaillot. He had found in M. de Busigny, who, by the by, had given them a magnificent dinner, a partner worthy of his company. They were playing together, as usual, when seven o’clock sounded; the patrol was heard passing to double the posts. At half past seven the retreat was sounded.
“We are lost,” said d’Artagnan, in the ear of Athos.
“You mean to say we have lost,” said Athos, quietly, drawing four pistoles from his pocket and throwing them upon the table. “Come, gentlemen,” said he, “they are beating the tattoo. Let us to bed!”
And Athos went out of the Parpaillot, followed by d’Artagnan. Aramis came behind, giving his arm to Porthos. Aramis mumbled verses to himself, and Porthos from time to time pulled a hair or two from his mustache, in sign of despair.
But all at once a shadow appeared in the darkness the outline of which was familiar to d’Artagnan, and a well-known voice said, “Monsieur, I have brought your cloak; it is chilly this evening.”
“Planchet!” cried d’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.
“Planchet!” repeated Aramis and Porthos.
“Well, yes, Planchet, to be sure,” said Athos, “what is there so astonishing in that? He promised to be back by eight o’clock, and eight is striking. Bravo, Planchet, you are a lad of your word, and if ever you leave your master, I will promise you a place in my service.”
“Oh, no, never,” said Planchet, “I will never leave Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
At the same time d’Artagnan felt that Planchet slipped a note into his hand.
D’Artagnan felt a strong inclination to embrace Planchet as he had embraced him on his departure; but he feared lest this mark of affection, bestowed upon his lackey in the open street, might appear extraordinary to passers-by, and he restrained himself.
“I have the note,” said he to Athos and to his friends.
“That’s well,” said Athos, “let us go home and read it.”
The note burned the hand of d’Artagnan. He wished to hasten their steps; but Athos took his arm and passed it under his own, and the young man was forced to regulate his pace by that of his friend.
At length they reached the tent, lit a lamp, and while Planchet stood at the entrance that the four friends might not be surprised, d’Artagnan, with a trembling hand, broke the seal and opened the so anxiously expected letter.
It contained half a line, in a hand perfectly British, and with a conciseness as perfectly Spartan:
Thank you; be easy.
d’Artagnan translated this for the others.
Athos took the letter from the hands of d’Artagnan, approached the lamp, set fire to the paper, and did not let go till it was reduced to a cinder.
Then, calling Planchet, he said, “Now, my lad, you may claim your seven hundred livres, but you did not run much risk with such a note as that.”
“I am not to blame for having tried every means to compress it,” said Planchet.
“Well!” cried d’Artagnan, “tell us all about it.”
“Dame, that’s a long job, monsieur.”
“You are right, Planchet,” said Athos; “besides, the tattoo has been sounded, and we should be observed if we kept a light burning much longer than the others.”
“So be it,” said d’Artagnan. “Go to bed, Planchet, and sleep soundly.”
“My faith, monsieur! that will be the first time I have done so for sixteen days.”
“And me, too!” said d’Artagnan.
“And me, too!” said Porthos.
“And me, too!” said Aramis.
“Well, if you will have the truth, and me, too!” said Athos.
49 FATALITY
Meantime Milady, drunk with passion, roaring on the deck like a lioness that has been embarked, had been tempted to throw herself into the sea that she might regain the coast, for she could not get rid of the thought that she had been insulted by d’Artagnan, threatened by Athos, and that she had quit France without being revenged on them. This idea soon became so insupportable to her that at the risk of whatever terrible consequences might result to herself from it, she implored the captain to put her on shore; but the captain, eager to escape from his false position-placed between French and English cruisers, like the bat between the mice and the birds-was in great haste to regain England, and positively refused to obey what he took for a woman’s caprice, promising his passenger, who had been particularly recommended to him by the cardinal, to land her, if the sea and the French permitted him, at one of the ports of Brittany, either at Lorient or Brest. But the wind was contrary, the sea bad; they tacked and kept offshore. Nine days after leaving the Charente, pale with fatigue and vexation, Milady saw only the blue coasts of Finisterre appear.
She calculated that to cross this corner of France and return to the cardinal it would take her at least three days. Add another day for landing, and that would make four. Add these four to the nine others, that would be thirteen days lost-thirteen days, during which so many important events might pass in London. She reflected likewise that the cardinal would be furious at her return, and consequently would be more disposed to listen to the complaints brought against her than to the accusations she brought against others.
She allowed the vessel to pass Lorient and Brest without repeating her request to the captain, who, on his part, took care not to remind her of it. Milady therefore continued her voyage, and on the very day that Planchet embarked at Portsmouth for France, the messenger of his Eminence entered the port in triumph.
All the city was agitated by an extraordinary movement. Four large vessels, recently built, had just been launched. At the end of the jetty, his clothes richly laced with gold, glittering, as was customary with him, with diamonds and precious stones, his hat ornamented with a white feather which drooped upon his shoulder, Buckingham was seen surrounded by a staff almost as brilliant as himself.
It was one of those rare and beautiful days in winter when England remembers that there is a sun. The star of day, pale but nevertheless still splendid, was setting in the horizon, glorifying at once the heavens and the sea with bands of fire, and casting upon the towers and the old houses of the city a last ray of gold which made the windows sparkle like the reflection of a conflagration. Breathing that sea breeze, so much more invigorating and balsamic as the land is approached, contemplating all the power of those preparations she was commissioned to destroy, all the power of that army which she was to combat alone-she, a woman with a few bags of gold-Milady compared herself mentally to Judith, the terrible Jewess, when she penetrated the camp of the Assyrians and beheld the enormous mass of chariots, horses, men, and arms, which a gesture of her hand was to dissipate like a cloud of smoke.
They entered the roadstead; but as they drew near in order to cast anchor, a little cutter, looking like a coastguard formidably armed, approached the merchant vessel and dropped into the sea a boat which directed its course to the ladder. This boat contained an officer, a mate, and eight rowers. The officer alone went on board, where he was received with all the deference inspired by the uniform.
The officer conversed a few instants with the captain, gave him several papers, of which he was the bearer, to read, and upon the order of the merchant captain the whole crew of the vessel, both passengers and sailors, were called upon deck.
When this species of summons was made the officer inquired aloud the point of the brig’s departure, its route, its landings; and to all these questions the captain replied without difficulty and without hesitation. Then the officer began to pass in review all the people, one after the other, and stopping when he came to Milady, surveyed her very closely, but without addressing a single word to her.
He then returned to the captain, said a few words to him, and as if from that moment the vessel was under his command, he ordered a maneuver which the crew executed immediately. Then the vessel resumed its course, still escorted by the little cutter, which sailed side by side with it, menacing it with the mouths of its six cannon. The boat followed in the wake of the ship, a speck near the enormous mass.
During the examination of Milady by the officer, as may well be imagined, Milady on her part was not less scrutinizing in her glances. But however great was the power of this woman with eyes of flame in reading the hearts of those whose secrets she wished to divine, she met this time with a countenance of such impassivity that no discovery followed her investigation. The officer who had stopped in front of her and studied her with so much care might have been twenty-five or twenty-six years of age. He was of pale complexion, with clear blue eyes, rather deeply set; his mouth, fine and well cut, remained motionless in its correct lines; his chin, strongly marked, denoted that strength of will which in the ordinary Britannic type denotes mostly nothing but obstinacy; a brow a little receding, as is proper for poets, enthusiasts, and soldiers, was scarcely shaded by short thin hair which, like the beard which covered the lower part of his face, was of a beautiful deep chestnut color.
When they entered the port, it was already night. The fog increased the darkness, and formed round the sternlights and lanterns of the jetty a circle like that which surrounds the moon when the weather threatens to become rainy. The air they breathed was heavy, damp, and cold.
Milady, that woman so courageous and firm, shivered in spite of herself.
The officer desired to have Milady’s packages pointed out to him, and ordered them to be placed in the boat. When this operation was complete, he invited her to descend by offering her his hand.
Milady looked at this man, and hesitated. “Who are you, sir,” asked she, “who has the kindness to trouble yourself so particularly on my account?”
“You may perceive, madame, by my uniform, that I am an officer in the English navy,” replied the young man.
“But is it the custom for the officers in the English navy to place themselves at the service of their female compatriots when they land in a port of Great Britain, and carry their gallantry so far as to conduct them ashore?”
“Yes, madame, it is the custom, not from gallantry but prudence, that in time of war foreigners should be conducted to particular hotels, in order that they may remain under the eye of the government until full information can be obtained about them.”
These words were pronounced with the most exact politeness and the most perfect calmness. Nevertheless, they had not the power of convincing Milady.
“But I am not a foreigner, sir,” said she, with an accent as pure as ever was heard between Portsmouth and Manchester; “my name is Lady Clarik, and this measure-”
“This measure is general, madame; and you will seek in vain to evade it.”
“I will follow you, then, sir.”
Accepting the hand of the officer, she began the descent of the ladder, at the foot of which the boat waited. The officer followed her. A large cloak was spread at the stern; the officer requested her to sit down upon this cloak, and placed himself beside her.
“Row!” said he to the sailors.
The eight oars fell at once into the sea, making but a single sound, giving but a single stroke, and the boat seemed to fly over the surface of the water.
In five minutes they gained the land.
The officer leaped to the pier, and offered his hand to Milady. A carriage was in waiting.
“Is this carriage for us?” asked Milady.
“Yes, madame,” replied the officer.
“The hotel, then, is far away?”
“At the other end of the town.”
“Very well,” said Milady; and she resolutely entered the carriage.
The officer saw that the baggage was fastened carefully behind the carriage; and this operation ended, he took his place beside Milady, and shut the door.
Immediately, without any order being given or his place of destination indicated, the coachman set off at a rapid pace, and plunged into the streets of the city.
So strange a reception naturally gave Milady ample matter for reflection; so seeing that the young officer did not seem at all disposed for conversation, she reclined in her corner of the carriage, and one after the other passed in review all the surmises which presented themselves to her mind.
At the end of a quarter of an hour, however, surprised at the length of the journey, she leaned forward toward the door to see whither she was being conducted. Houses were no longer to be seen; trees appeared in the darkness like great black phantoms chasing one another. Milady shuddered.
“But we are no longer in the city, sir,” said she.
The young officer preserved silence.
“I beg you to understand, sir, I will go no farther unless you tell me whither you are taking me.”
This threat brought no reply.
“Oh, this is too much,” cried Milady. “Help! help!”
No voice replied to hers; the carriage continued to roll on with rapidity; the officer seemed a statue.
Milady looked at the officer with one of those terrible expressions peculiar to her countenance, and which so rarely failed of their effect; anger made her eyes flash in the darkness.
The young man remained immovable.
Milady tried to open the door in order to throw herself out.
“Take care, madame,” said the young man, coolly, “you will kill yourself in jumping.”
Milady reseated herself, foaming. The officer leaned forward, looked at her in his turn, and appeared surprised to see that face, just before so beautiful, distorted with passion and almost hideous. The artful creature at once comprehended that she was injuring herself by allowing him thus to read her soul; she collected her features, and in a complaining voice said: “In the name of heaven, sir, tell me if it is to you, if it is to your government, if it is to an enemy I am to attribute the violence that is done me?”
“No violence will be offered to you, madame, and what happens to you is the result of a very simple measure which we are obliged to adopt with all who land in England.”
“Then you don’t know me, sir?”
“It is the first time I have had the honor of seeing you.”
“And on your honor, you have no cause of hatred against me?”
“None, I swear to you.”
There was so much serenity, coolness, mildness even, in the voice of the young man, that Milady felt reassured.
At length after a journey of nearly an hour, the carriage stopped before an iron gate, which closed an avenue leading to a castle severe in form, massive, and isolated. Then, as the wheels rolled over a fine gravel, Milady could hear a vast roaring, which she at once recognized as the noise of the sea dashing against some steep cliff.
The carriage passed under two arched gateways, and at length stopped in a court large, dark, and square. Almost immediately the door of the carriage was opened, the young man sprang lightly out and presented his hand to Milady, who leaned upon it, and in her turn alighted with tolerable calmness.
“Still, then, I am a prisoner,” said Milady, looking around her, and bringing back her eyes with a most gracious smile to the young officer; “but I feel assured it will not be for long,” added she. “My own conscience and your politeness, sir, are the guarantees of that.”
However flattering this compliment, the officer made no reply; but drawing from his belt a little silver whistle, such as boatswains use in ships of war, he whistled three times, with three different modulations. Immediately several men appeared, who unharnessed the smoking horses, and put the carriage into a coach house.
Then the officer, with the same calm politeness, invited his prisoner to enter the house. She, with a still-smiling countenance, took his arm, and passed with him under a low arched door, which by a vaulted passage, lighted only at the farther end, led to a stone staircase around an angle of stone. They then came to a massive door, which after the introduction into the lock of a key which the young man carried with him, turned heavily upon its hinges, and disclosed the chamber destined for Milady.
With a single glance the prisoner took in the apartment in its minutest details. It was a chamber whose furniture was at once appropriate for a prisoner or a free man; and yet bars at the windows and outside bolts at the door decided the question in favor of the prison.
In an instant all the strength of mind of this creature, though drawn from the most vigorous sources, abandoned her; she sank into a large easy chair, with her arms crossed, her head lowered, and expecting every instant to see a judge enter to interrogate her.
But no one entered except two or three marines, who brought her trunks and packages, deposited them in a corner, and retired without speaking.
The officer superintended all these details with the same calmness Milady had constantly seen in him, never pronouncing a word himself, and making himself obeyed by a gesture of his hand or a sound of his whistle.
It might have been said that between this man and his inferiors spoken language did not exist, or had become useless.
At length Milady could hold out no longer; she broke the silence. “In the name of heaven, sir,” cried she, “what means all that is passing? Put an end to my doubts; I have courage enough for any danger I can foresee, for every misfortune which I understand. Where am I, and why am I here? If I am free, why these bars and these doors? If I am a prisoner, what crime have I committed?”
“You are here in the apartment destined for you, madame. I received orders to go and take charge of you on the sea, and to conduct you to this castle. This order I believe I have accomplished with all the exactness of a soldier, but also with the courtesy of a gentleman. There terminates, at least to the present moment, the duty I had to fulfill toward you; the rest concerns another person.”
“And who is that other person?” asked Milady, warmly. “Can you not tell me his name?”
At the moment a great jingling of spurs was heard on the stairs. Some voices passed and faded away, and the sound of a single footstep approached the door.
“That person is here, madame,” said the officer, leaving the entrance open, and drawing himself up in an attitude of respect.
At the same time the door opened; a man appeared on the threshold. He was without a hat, carried a sword, and flourished a handkerchief in his hand.
Milady thought she recognized this shadow in the gloom; she supported herself with one hand upon the arm of the chair, and advanced her head as if to meet a certainty.
The stranger advanced slowly, and as he advanced, after entering into the circle of light projected by the lamp, Milady involuntarily drew back.
Then when she had no longer any doubt, she cried, in a state of stupor, “What, my brother, is it you?”
“Yes, fair lady!” replied Lord de Winter, making a bow, half courteous, half ironical; “it is I, myself.”
“But this castle, then?”
“Is mine.”
“This chamber?”
“Is yours.”
“I am, then, your prisoner?”
“Nearly so.”
“But this is a frightful abuse of power!”
“No high-sounding words! Let us sit down and chat quietly, as brother and sister ought to do.”
Then, turning toward the door, and seeing that the young officer was waiting for his last orders, he said. “All is well, I thank you; now leave us alone, Mr. Felton.”