This noise acted upon her joy like the storm which awakens the sleeper in the midst of a happy dream; she grew pale and ran to the window, while Mme. Bonacieux, rising all in a tremble, supported herself upon her chair to avoid falling. Nothing was yet to be seen, only they heard the galloping draw nearer.
“Oh, my God!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “what is that noise?”
“That of either our friends or our enemies,” said Milady, with her terrible coolness. “Stay where you are, I will tell you.”
Mme. Bonacieux remained standing, mute, motionless, and pale as a statue.
The noise became louder; the horses could not be more than a hundred and fifty paces distant. If they were not yet to be seen, it was because the road made an elbow. The noise became so distinct that the horses might be counted by the rattle of their hoofs.
Milady gazed with all the power of her attention; it was just light enough for her to see who was coming.
All at once, at the turning of the road she saw the glitter of laced hats and the waving of feathers; she counted two, then five, then eight horsemen. One of them preceded the rest by double the length of his horse.
Milady uttered a stifled groan. In the first horseman she recognized d’Artagnan.
“Oh, my God, my God,” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “what is it?”
“It is the uniform of the cardinal’s Guards. Not an instant to be lost! Fly, fly!”
“Yes, yes, let us fly!” repeated Mme. Bonacieux, but without being able to make a step, glued as she was to the spot by terror.
They heard the horsemen pass under the windows.
“Come, then, come, then!” cried Milady, trying to drag the young woman along by the arm. “Thanks to the garden, we yet can flee; I have the key, but make haste! in five minutes it will be too late!”
Mme. Bonacieux tried to walk, made two steps, and sank upon her knees. Milady tried to raise and carry her, but could not do it.
At this moment they heard the rolling of the carriage, which at the approach of the Musketeers set off at a gallop. Then three or four shots were fired.
“For the last time, will you come?” cried Milady.
“Oh, my God, my God! you see my strength fails me; you see plainly I cannot walk. Flee alone!”
“Flee alone, and leave you here? No, no, never!” cried Milady.
All at once she paused, a livid flash darted from her eyes; she ran to the table, emptied into Mme. Bonacieux’s glass the contents of a ring which she opened with singular quickness. It was a grain of a reddish color, which dissolved immediately.
Then, taking the glass with a firm hand, she said, “Drink. This wine will give you strength, drink!” And she put the glass to the lips of the young woman, who drank mechanically.
“This is not the way that I wished to avenge myself,” said Milady, replacing the glass upon the table, with an infernal smile, “but, my faith! we do what we can!” And she rushed out of the room.
Mme. Bonacieux saw her go without being able to follow her; she was like people who dream they are pursued, and who in vain try to walk.
A few moments passed; a great noise was heard at the gate. Every instant Mme. Bonacieux expected to see Milady, but she did not return. Several times, with terror, no doubt, the cold sweat burst from her burning brow.
At length she heard the grating of the hinges of the opening gates; the noise of boots and spurs resounded on the stairs. There was a great murmur of voices which continued to draw near, amid which she seemed to hear her own name pronounced.
All at once she uttered a loud cry of joy, and darted toward the door; she had recognized the voice of d’Artagnan.
“d’Artagnan! D’Artagnan!” cried she, “is it you? This way! this way!”
“Constance? Constance?” replied the young man, “where are you? where are you? My God!”
At the same moment the door of the cell yielded to a shock, rather than opened; several men rushed into the chamber. Mme. Bonacieux had sunk into an armchair, without the power of moving.
D’Artagnan threw down a yet-smoking pistol which he held in his hand, and fell on his knees before his mistress. Athos replaced his in his belt; Porthos and Aramis, who held their drawn swords in their hands, returned them to their scabbards.
“Oh, d’Artagnan, my beloved d’Artagnan! You have come, then, at last! You have not deceived me! It is indeed thee!”
“Yes, yes, Constance. Reunited!”
“Oh, it was in vain she told me you would not come! I hoped in silence. I was not willing to fly. Oh, I have done well! How happy I am!”
At this word SHE, Athos, who had seated himself quietly, started up.
“SHE! What she?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Why, my companion. She who out of friendship for me wished to take me from my persecutors. She who, mistaking you for the cardinal’s Guards, has just fled away.”
“Your companion!” cried d’Artagnan, becoming more pale than the white veil of his mistress. “Of what companion are you speaking, dear Constance?”
“Of her whose carriage was at the gate; of a woman who calls herself your friend; of a woman to whom you have told everything.”
“Her name, her name!” cried d’Artagnan. “My God, can you not remember her name?”
“Yes, it was pronounced in my hearing once. Stop-but-it is very strange-oh, my God, my head swims! I cannot see!”
“Help, help, my friends! her hands are icy cold,” cried d’Artagnan. “She is ill! Great God, she is losing her senses!”
While Porthos was calling for help with all the power of his strong voice, Aramis ran to the table to get a glass of water; but he stopped at seeing the horrible alteration that had taken place in the countenance of Athos, who, standing before the table, his hair rising from his head, his eyes fixed in stupor, was looking at one of the glasses, and appeared a prey to the most horrible doubt.
“Oh!” said Athos, “oh, no, it is impossible! God would not permit such a crime!”
“Water, water!” cried d’Artagnan. “Water!”
“Oh, poor woman, poor woman!” murmured Athos, in a broken voice.
Mme. Bonacieux opened her eyes under the kisses of d’Artagnan.
“She revives!” cried the young man. “Oh, my God, my God, I thank thee!”
“Madame!” said Athos, “madame, in the name of heaven, whose empty glass is this?”
“Mine, monsieur,” said the young woman, in a dying voice.
“But who poured the wine for you that was in this glass?”
“She.”
“But who is SHE?”
“Oh, I remember!” said Mme. Bonacieux, “the Comtesse de Winter.”
The four friends uttered one and the same cry, but that of Athos dominated all the rest.
At that moment the countenance of Mme. Bonacieux became livid; a fearful agony pervaded her frame, and she sank panting into the arms of Porthos and Aramis.
D’Artagnan seized the hands of Athos with an anguish difficult to be described.
“And what do you believe?’ His voice was stifled by sobs.
“I believe everything,” said Athos, biting his lips till the blood sprang to avoid sighing.
“d’Artagnan, d’Artagnan!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, “where art thou? Do not leave me! You see I am dying!”
D’Artagnan released the hands of Athos which he still held clasped in both his own, and hastened to her. Her beautiful face was distorted with agony; her glassy eyes had no longer their sight; a convulsive shuddering shook her whole body; the sweat rolled from her brow.
“In the name of heaven, run, call! Aramis! Porthos! Call for help!”
“Useless!” said Athos, “useless! For the poison which SHE pours there is no antidote.”
“Yes, yes! Help, help!” murmured Mme. Bonacieux; “help!”
Then, collecting all her strength, she took the head of the young man between her hands, looked at him for an instant as if her whole soul passed into that look, and with a sobbing cry pressed her lips to his.
“Constance, Constance!” cried d’Artagnan.
A sigh escaped from the mouth of Mme. Bonacieux, and dwelt for an instant on the lips of d’Artagnan. That sigh was the soul, so chaste and so loving, which reascended to heaven.
D’Artagnan pressed nothing but a corpse in his arms. The young man uttered a cry, and fell by the side of his mistress as pale and as icy as herself.
Porthos wept; Aramis pointed toward heaven; Athos made the sign of the cross.
At that moment a man appeared in the doorway, almost as pale as those in the chamber. He looked around him and saw Mme. Bonacieux dead, and d’Artagnan in a swoon. He appeared just at that moment of stupor which follows great catastrophes.
“I was not deceived,” said he; “here is Monsieur d’Artagnan; and you are his friends, Messieurs Athos, Porthos, and Aramis.”
The persons whose names were thus pronounced looked at the stranger with astonishment. It seemed to all three that they knew him.
“Gentlemen,” resumed the newcomer, “you are, as I am, in search of a woman who,” added he, with a terrible smile, “must have passed this way, for I see a corpse.”
The three friends remained mute-for although the voice as well as the countenance reminded them of someone they had seen, they could not remember under what circumstances.
“Gentlemen,” continued the stranger, “since you do not recognize a man who probably owes his life to you twice, I must name myself. I am Lord de Winter, brother-in-law of THAT WOMAN.”
The three friends uttered a cry of surprise.
Athos rose, and offering him his hand, “Be welcome, my Lord,” said he, “you are one of us.”
“I set out five hours after her from Portsmouth,” said Lord de Winter. “I arrived three hours after her at Boulogne. I missed her by twenty minutes at St. Omer. Finally, at Lilliers I lost all trace of her. I was going about at random, inquiring of everybody, when I saw you gallop past. I recognized Monsieur d’Artagnan. I called to you, but you did not answer me; I wished to follow you, but my horse was too much fatigued to go at the same pace with yours. And yet it appears, in spite of all your diligence, you have arrived too late.”
“You see!” said Athos, pointing to Mme. Bonacieux dead, and to d’Artagnan, whom Porthos and Aramis were trying to recall to life.
“Are they both dead?” asked Lord de Winter, sternly.
“No,” replied Athos, “fortunately Monsieur d’Artagnan has only fainted.”
“Ah, indeed, so much the better!” said Lord de Winter.
At that moment d’Artagnan opened his eyes. He tore himself from the arms of Porthos and Aramis, and threw himself like a madman on the corpse of his mistress.
Athos rose, walked toward his friend with a slow and solemn step, embraced him tenderly, and as he burst into violent sobs, he said to him with his noble and persuasive voice, “Friend, be a man! Women weep for the dead; men avenge them!”
“Oh, yes!” cried d’Artagnan, “yes! If it be to avenge her, I am ready to follow you.”
Athos profited by this moment of strength which the hope of vengeance restored to his unfortunate friend to make a sign to Porthos and Aramis to go and fetch the superior.
The two friends met her in the corridor, greatly troubled and much upset by such strange events; she called some of the nuns, who against all monastic custom found themselves in the presence of five men.
“Madame,” said Athos, passing his arm under that of d’Artagnan, “we abandon to your pious care the body of that unfortunate woman. She was an angel on earth before being an angel in heaven. Treat her as one of your sisters. We will return someday to pray over her grave.”
D’Artagnan concealed his face in the bosom of Athos, and sobbed aloud.
“Weep,” said Athos, “weep, heart full of love, youth, and life! Alas, would I could weep like you!”
And he drew away his friend, as affectionate as a father, as consoling as a priest, noble as a man who has suffered much.
All five, followed by their lackeys leading their horses, took their way to the town of Bethune, whose outskirts they perceived, and stopped before the first inn they came to.
“But,” said d’Artagnan, “shall we not pursue that woman?”
“Later,” said Athos. “I have measures to take.”
“She will escape us,” replied the young man; “she will escape us, and it will be your fault, Athos.”
“I will be accountable for her,” said Athos.
D’Artagnan had so much confidence in the word of his friend that he lowered his head, and entered the inn without reply.
Porthos and Aramis regarded each other, not understanding this assurance of Athos.
Lord de Winter believed he spoke in this manner to soothe the grief of d’Artagnan.
“Now, gentlemen,” said Athos, when he had ascertained there were five chambers free in the hotel, “let everyone retire to his own apartment. d’Artagnan needs to be alone, to weep and to sleep. I take charge of everything; be easy.”
“It appears, however,” said Lord de Winter, “if there are any measures to take against the countess, it concerns me; she is my sister-in-law.”
“And me,” said Athos, “ – she is my wife!”
D’Artagnan smiled-for he understood that Athos was sure of his vengeance when he revealed such a secret. Porthos and Aramis looked at each other, and grew pale. Lord de Winter thought Athos was mad.
“Now, retire to your chambers,” said Athos, “and leave me to act. You must perceive that in my quality of a husband this concerns me. Only, d’Artagnan, if you have not lost it, give me the paper which fell from that man’s hat, upon which is written the name of the village of-”
“Ah,” said d’Artagnan, “I comprehend! that name written in her hand.”
“You see, then,” said Athos, “there is a god in heaven still!”
64 THE MAN IN THE RED CLOAK
The despair of Athos had given place to a concentrated grief which only rendered more lucid the brilliant mental faculties of that extraordinary man.
Possessed by one single thought-that of the promise he had made, and of the responsibility he had taken-he retired last to his chamber, begged the host to procure him a map of the province, bent over it, examined every line traced upon it, perceived that there were four different roads from Bethune to Armentieres, and summoned the lackeys.
Planchet, Grimaud, Bazin, and Mousqueton presented themselves, and received clear, positive, and serious orders from Athos.
They must set out the next morning at daybreak, and go to Armentieres-each by a different route. Planchet, the most intelligent of the four, was to follow that by which the carriage had gone upon which the four friends had fired, and which was accompanied, as may be remembered, by Rochefort’s servant.
Athos set the lackeys to work first because, since these men had been in the service of himself and his friends he had discovered in each of them different and essential qualities. Then, lackeys who ask questions inspire less mistrust than masters, and meet with more sympathy among those to whom they address themselves. Besides, Milady knew the masters, and did not know the lackeys; on the contrary, the lackeys knew Milady perfectly.
All four were to meet the next day at eleven o’clock. If they had discovered Milady’s retreat, three were to remain on guard; the fourth was to return to Bethune in order to inform Athos and serve as a guide to the four friends. These arrangements made, the lackeys retired.
Athos then arose from his chair, girded on his sword, enveloped himself in his cloak, and left the hotel. It was nearly ten o’clock. At ten o’clock in the evening, it is well known, the streets in provincial towns are very little frequented. Athos nevertheless was visibly anxious to find someone of whom he could ask a question. At length he met a belated passenger, went up to him, and spoke a few words to him. The man he addressed recoiled with terror, and only answered the few words of the Musketeer by pointing. Athos offered the man half a pistole to accompany him, but the man refused.
Athos then plunged into the street the man had indicated with his finger; but arriving at four crossroads, he stopped again, visibly embarrassed. Nevertheless, as the crossroads offered him a better chance than any other place of meeting somebody, he stood still. In a few minutes a night watch passed. Athos repeated to him the same question he had asked the first person he met. The night watch evinced the same terror, refused, in his turn, to accompany Athos, and only pointed with his hand to the road he was to take.
Athos walked in the direction indicated, and reached the suburb situated at the opposite extremity of the city from that by which he and his friends had entered it. There he again appeared uneasy and embarrassed, and stopped for the third time.
Fortunately, a mendicant passed, who, coming up to Athos to ask charity, Athos offered him half a crown to accompany him where he was going. The mendicant hesitated at first, but at the sight of the piece of silver which shone in the darkness he consented, and walked on before Athos.
Arrived at the angle of a street, he pointed to a small house, isolated, solitary, and dismal. Athos went toward the house, while the mendicant, who had received his reward, left as fast as his legs could carry him.
Athos went round the house before he could distinguish the door, amid the red color in which the house was painted. No light appeared through the chinks of the shutters; no noise gave reason to believe that it was inhabited. It was dark and silent as the tomb.
Three times Athos knocked without receiving an answer. At the third knock, however, steps were heard inside. The door at length was opened, and a man appeared, of high stature, pale complexion, and black hair and beard.
Athos and he exchanged some words in a low voice, then the tall man made a sign to the Musketeer that he might come in. Athos immediately profited by the permission, and the door was closed behind him.
The man whom Athos had come so far to seek, and whom he had found with so much trouble, introduced him into his laboratory, where he was engaged in fastening together with iron wire the dry bones of a skeleton. All the frame was adjusted except the head, which lay on the table.
All the rest of the furniture indicated that the dweller in this house occupied himself with the study of natural science. There were large bottles filled with serpents, ticketed according to their species; dried lizards shone like emeralds set in great squares of black wood, and bunches of wild odoriferous herbs, doubtless possessed of virtues unknown to common men, were fastened to the ceiling and hung down in the corners of the apartment. There was no family, no servant; the tall man alone inhabited this house.
Athos cast a cold and indifferent glance upon the objects we have described, and at the invitation of him whom he came to seek sat down near him.
Then he explained to him the cause of his visit, and the service he required of him. But scarcely had he expressed his request when the unknown, who remained standing before the Musketeer, drew back with signs of terror, and refused. Then Athos took from his pocket a small paper, on which two lines were written, accompanied by a signature and a seal, and presented them to him who had made too prematurely these signs of repugnance. The tall man had scarcely read these lines, seen the signature, and recognized the seal, when he bowed to denote that he had no longer any objection to make, and that he was ready to obey.
Athos required no more. He arose, bowed, went out, returned by the same way he came, re-entered the hotel, and went to his apartment.
At daybreak d’Artagnan entered the chamber, and demanded what was to be done.
“To wait,” replied Athos.
Some minutes after, the superior of the convent sent to inform the Musketeers that the burial would take place at midday. As to the poisoner, they had heard no tidings of her whatever, only that she must have made her escape through the garden, on the sand of which her footsteps could be traced, and the door of which had been found shut. As to the key, it had disappeared.
At the hour appointed, Lord de Winter and the four friends repaired to the convent; the bells tolled, the chapel was open, the grating of the choir was closed. In the middle of the choir the body of the victim, clothed in her novitiate dress, was exposed. On each side of the choir and behind the gratings opening into the convent was assembled the whole community of the Carmelites, who listened to the divine service, and mingled their chant with the chant of the priests, without seeing the profane, or being seen by them.
At the door of the chapel d’Artagnan felt his courage fall anew, and returned to look for Athos; but Athos had disappeared.
Faithful to his mission of vengeance, Athos had requested to be conducted to the garden; and there upon the sand following the light steps of this woman, who left sharp tracks wherever she went, he advanced toward the gate which led into the wood, and causing it to be opened, he went out into the forest.
Then all his suspicions were confirmed; the road by which the carriage had disappeared encircled the forest. Athos followed the road for some time, his eyes fixed upon the ground; slight stains of blood, which came from the wound inflicted upon the man who accompanied the carriage as a courier, or from one of the horses, dotted the road. At the end of three-quarters of a league, within fifty paces of Festubert, a larger bloodstain appeared; the ground was trampled by horses. Between the forest and this accursed spot, a little behind the trampled ground, was the same track of small feet as in the garden; the carriage had stopped here. At this spot Milady had come out of the wood, and entered the carriage.
Satisfied with this discovery which confirmed all his suspicions, Athos returned to the hotel, and found Planchet impatiently waiting for him.
Everything was as Athos had foreseen.
Planchet had followed the road; like Athos, he had discovered the stains of blood; like Athos, he had noted the spot where the horses had halted. But he had gone farther than Athos-for at the village of Festubert, while drinking at an inn, he had learned without needing to ask a question that the evening before, at half-past eight, a wounded man who accompanied a lady traveling in a post-chaise had been obliged to stop, unable to go further. The accident was set down to the account of robbers, who had stopped the chaise in the wood. The man remained in the village; the woman had had a relay of horses, and continued her journey.
Planchet went in search of the postillion who had driven her, and found him. He had taken the lady as far as Fromelles; and from Fromelles she had set out for Armentieres. Planchet took the crossroad, and by seven o’clock in the morning he was at Armentieres.
There was but one tavern, the Post. Planchet went and presented himself as a lackey out of a place, who was in search of a situation. He had not chatted ten minutes with the people of the tavern before he learned that a woman had come there alone about eleven o’clock the night before, had engaged a chamber, had sent for the master of the hotel, and told him she desired to remain some time in the neighborhood.
Planchet had no need to learn more. He hastened to the rendezvous, found the lackeys at their posts, placed them as sentinels at all the outlets of the hotel, and came to find Athos, who had just received this information when his friends returned.
All their countenances were melancholy and gloomy, even the mild countenance of Aramis.
“What is to be done?” asked d’Artagnan.
“To wait!” replied Athos.
Each retired to his own apartment.
At eight o’clock in the evening Athos ordered the horses to be saddled, and Lord de Winter and his friends notified that they must prepare for the expedition.
In an instant all five were ready. Each examined his arms, and put them in order. Athos came down last, and found d’Artagnan already on horseback, and growing impatient.
“Patience!” cried Athos; “one of our party is still wanting.”
The four horsemen looked round them with astonishment, for they sought vainly in their minds to know who this other person could be.
At this moment Planchet brought out Athos’s horse; the Musketeer leaped lightly into the saddle.
“Wait for me,” cried he, “I will soon be back,” and he set off at a gallop.
In a quarter of an hour he returned, accompanied by a tall man, masked, and wrapped in a large red cloak.
Lord de Winter and the three Musketeers looked at one another inquiringly. Neither could give the others any information, for all were ignorant who this man could be; nevertheless, they felt convinced that all was as it should be, as it was done by the order of Athos.
At nine o’clock, guided by Planchet, the little cavalcade set out, taking the route the carriage had taken.
It was a melancholy sight-that of these six men, traveling in silence, each plunged in his own thoughts, sad as despair, gloomy as chastisement.