Kabanata Kabanata 52 · Chapter LII.

. Chapter LII.

CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY

Let us return to Milady, whom a glance thrown upon the coast of France

has made us lose sight of for an instant.

We shall find her still in the despairing attitude in which we left

her, plunged in an abyss of dismal reflection—a dark hell at the gate

of which she has almost left hope behind, because for the first time

she doubts, for the first time she fears.

On two occasions her fortune has failed her, on two occasions she has

found herself discovered and betrayed; and on these two occasions it

was to one fatal genius, sent doubtlessly by the Lord to combat her,

that she has succumbed. D’Artagnan has conquered her—her, that

invincible power of evil.

He has deceived her in her love, humbled her in her pride, thwarted her

in her ambition; and now he ruins her fortune, deprives her of liberty,

and even threatens her life. Still more, he has lifted the corner of

her mask—that shield with which she covered herself and which rendered

her so strong.

D’Artagnan has turned aside from Buckingham, whom she hates as she

hates everyone she has loved, the tempest with which Richelieu

threatened him in the person of the queen. D’Artagnan had passed

himself upon her as De Wardes, for whom she had conceived one of those

tigerlike fancies common to women of her character. D’Artagnan knows

that terrible secret which she has sworn no one shall know without

dying. In short, at the moment in which she has just obtained from

Richelieu a _carte blanche_ by the means of which she is about to take

vengeance on her enemy, this precious paper is torn from her hands, and

it is D’Artagnan who holds her prisoner and is about to send her to

some filthy Botany Bay, some infamous Tyburn of the Indian Ocean.

All this she owes to D’Artagnan, without doubt. From whom can come so

many disgraces heaped upon her head, if not from him? He alone could

have transmitted to Lord de Winter all these frightful secrets which he

has discovered, one after another, by a train of fatalities. He knows

her brother-in-law. He must have written to him.

What hatred she distills! Motionless, with her burning and fixed

glances, in her solitary apartment, how well the outbursts of passion

which at times escape from the depths of her chest with her

respiration, accompany the sound of the surf which rises, growls,

roars, and breaks itself like an eternal and powerless despair against

the rocks on which is built this dark and lofty castle! How many

magnificent projects of vengeance she conceives by the light of the

flashes which her tempestuous passion casts over her mind against Mme.

Bonacieux, against Buckingham, but above all against

D’Artagnan—projects lost in the distance of the future.

Yes; but in order to avenge herself she must be free. And to be free, a

prisoner has to pierce a wall, detach bars, cut through a floor—all

undertakings which a patient and strong man may accomplish, but before

which the feverish irritations of a woman must give way. Besides, to do

all this, time is necessary—months, years; and she has ten or twelve

days, as Lord de Winter, her fraternal and terrible jailer, has told

her.

And yet, if she were a man she would attempt all this, and perhaps

might succeed; why, then, did heaven make the mistake of placing that

manlike soul in that frail and delicate body?

The first moments of her captivity were terrible; a few convulsions of

rage which she could not suppress paid her debt of feminine weakness to

nature. But by degrees she overcame the outbursts of her mad passion;

and nervous tremblings which agitated her frame disappeared, and she

remained folded within herself like a fatigued serpent in repose.

“Go to, go to! I must have been mad to allow myself to be carried away

so,” says she, gazing into the glass, which reflects back to her eyes

the burning glance by which she appears to interrogate herself. “No

violence; violence is the proof of weakness. In the first place, I have

never succeeded by that means. Perhaps if I employed my strength

against women I might perchance find them weaker than myself, and

consequently conquer them; but it is with men that I struggle, and I am

but a woman to them. Let me fight like a woman, then; my strength is in

my weakness.”

Then, as if to render an account to herself of the changes she could

place upon her countenance, so mobile and so expressive, she made it

take all expressions from that of passionate anger, which convulsed her

features, to that of the most sweet, most affectionate, and most

seducing smile. Then her hair assumed successively, under her skillful

hands, all the undulations she thought might assist the charms of her

face. At length she murmured, satisfied with herself, “Come, nothing is

lost; I am still beautiful.”

It was then nearly eight o’clock in the evening. Milady perceived a

bed; she calculated that the repose of a few hours would not only

refresh her head and her ideas, but still further, her complexion. A

better idea, however, came into her mind before going to bed. She had

heard something said about supper. She had already been an hour in this

apartment; they could not long delay bringing her a repast. The

prisoner did not wish to lose time; and she resolved to make that very

evening some attempts to ascertain the nature of the ground she had to

work upon, by studying the characters of the men to whose guardianship

she was committed.

A light appeared under the door; this light announced the reappearance

of her jailers. Milady, who had arisen, threw herself quickly into the

armchair, her head thrown back, her beautiful hair unbound and

disheveled, her bosom half bare beneath her crumpled lace, one hand on

her heart, and the other hanging down.

The bolts were drawn; the door groaned upon its hinges. Steps sounded

in the chamber, and drew near.

“Place that table there,” said a voice which the prisoner recognized as

that of Felton.

The order was executed.

“You will bring lights, and relieve the sentinel,” continued Felton.

And this double order which the young lieutenant gave to the same

individuals proved to Milady that her servants were the same men as her

guards; that is to say, soldiers.

Felton’s orders were, for the rest, executed with a silent rapidity

that gave a good idea of the way in which he maintained discipline.

At length Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward her.

“Ah, ah!” said he, “she is asleep; that’s well. When she wakes she can

sup.” And he made some steps toward the door.

“But, my lieutenant,” said a soldier, less stoical than his chief, and

who had approached Milady, “this woman is not asleep.”

“What, not asleep!” said Felton; “what is she doing, then?”

“She has fainted. Her face is very pale, and I have listened in vain; I

do not hear her breathe.”

“You are right,” said Felton, after having looked at Milady from the

spot on which he stood without moving a step toward her. “Go and tell

Lord de Winter that his prisoner has fainted—for this event not having

been foreseen, I don’t know what to do.”

The soldier went out to obey the orders of his officer. Felton sat down

upon an armchair which happened to be near the door, and waited without

speaking a word, without making a gesture. Milady possessed that great

art, so much studied by women, of looking through her long eyelashes

without appearing to open the lids. She perceived Felton, who sat with

his back toward her. She continued to look at him for nearly ten

minutes, and in these ten minutes the immovable guardian never turned

round once.

She then thought that Lord de Winter would come, and by his presence

give fresh strength to her jailer. Her first trial was lost; she acted

like a woman who reckons up her resources. As a result she raised her

head, opened her eyes, and sighed deeply.

At this sigh Felton turned round.

“Ah, you are awake, madame,” he said; “then I have nothing more to do

here. If you want anything you can ring.”

“Oh, my God, my God! how I have suffered!” said Milady, in that

harmonious voice which, like that of the ancient enchantresses, charmed

all whom she wished to destroy.

And she assumed, upon sitting up in the armchair, a still more graceful

and abandoned position than when she reclined.

Felton arose.

“You will be served, thus, madame, three times a day,” said he. “In the

morning at nine o’clock, in the day at one o’clock, and in the evening

at eight. If that does not suit you, you can point out what other hours

you prefer, and in this respect your wishes will be complied with.”

“But am I to remain always alone in this vast and dismal chamber?”

asked Milady.

“A woman of the neighbourhood has been sent for, who will be tomorrow

at the castle, and will return as often as you desire her presence.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied the prisoner, humbly.

Felton made a slight bow, and directed his steps toward the door. At

the moment he was about to go out, Lord de Winter appeared in the

corridor, followed by the soldier who had been sent to inform him of

the swoon of Milady. He held a vial of salts in his hand.

“Well, what is it—what is going on here?” said he, in a jeering voice,

on seeing the prisoner sitting up and Felton about to go out. “Is this

corpse come to life already? Felton, my lad, did you not perceive that

you were taken for a novice, and that the first act was being performed

of a comedy of which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of following

out all the developments?”

“I thought so, my lord,” said Felton; “but as the prisoner is a woman,

after all, I wish to pay her the attention that every man of gentle

birth owes to a woman, if not on her account, at least on my own.”

Milady shuddered through her whole system. These words of Felton’s

passed like ice through her veins.

“So,” replied de Winter, laughing, “that beautiful hair so skillfully

disheveled, that white skin, and that languishing look, have not yet

seduced you, you heart of stone?”

“No, my Lord,” replied the impassive young man; “your Lordship may be

assured that it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman

to corrupt me.”

“In that case, my brave lieutenant, let us leave Milady to find out

something else, and go to supper; but be easy! She has a fruitful

imagination, and the second act of the comedy will not delay its steps

after the first.”

And at these words Lord de Winter passed his arm through that of

Felton, and led him out, laughing.

“Oh, I will be a match for you!” murmured Milady, between her teeth;

“be assured of that, you poor spoiled monk, you poor converted soldier,

who has cut his uniform out of a monk’s frock!”

“By the way,” resumed de Winter, stopping at the threshold of the door,

“you must not, Milady, let this check take away your appetite. Taste

that fowl and those fish. On my honor, they are not poisoned. I have a

very good cook, and he is not to be my heir; I have full and perfect

confidence in him. Do as I do. Adieu, dear sister, till your next

swoon!”

This was all that Milady could endure. Her hands clutched her armchair;

she ground her teeth inwardly; her eyes followed the motion of the door

as it closed behind Lord de Winter and Felton, and the moment she was

alone a fresh fit of despair seized her. She cast her eyes upon the

table, saw the glittering of a knife, rushed toward it and clutched it;

but her disappointment was cruel. The blade was round, and of flexible

silver.

A burst of laughter resounded from the other side of the ill-closed

door, and the door reopened.

“Ha, ha!” cried Lord de Winter; “ha, ha! Don’t you see, my brave

Felton; don’t you see what I told you? That knife was for you, my lad;

she would have killed you. Observe, this is one of her peculiarities,

to get rid thus, after one fashion or another, of all the people who

bother her. If I had listened to you, the knife would have been pointed

and of steel. Then no more of Felton; she would have cut your throat,

and after that everybody else’s. See, John, see how well she knows how

to handle a knife.”

In fact, Milady still held the harmless weapon in her clenched hand;

but these last words, this supreme insult, relaxed her hands, her

strength, and even her will. The knife fell to the ground.

“You were right, my Lord,” said Felton, with a tone of profound disgust

which sounded to the very bottom of the heart of Milady, “you were

right, my Lord, and I was wrong.”

And both again left the room.

But this time Milady lent a more attentive ear than the first, and she

heard their steps die away in the distance of the corridor.

“I am lost,” murmured she; “I am lost! I am in the power of men upon

whom I can have no more influence than upon statues of bronze or

granite; they know me by heart, and are steeled against all my weapons.

It is, however, impossible that this should end as they have decreed!”

In fact, as this last reflection indicated—this instinctive return to

hope—sentiments of weakness or fear did not dwell long in her ardent

spirit. Milady sat down to table, ate from several dishes, drank a

little Spanish wine, and felt all her resolution return.

Before she went to bed she had pondered, analyzed, turned on all sides,

examined on all points, the words, the steps, the gestures, the signs,

and even the silence of her interlocutors; and of this profound,

skillful, and anxious study the result was that Felton, everything

considered, appeared the more vulnerable of her two persecutors.

One expression above all recurred to the mind of the prisoner: “If I

had listened to you,” Lord de Winter had said to Felton.

Felton, then, had spoken in her favor, since Lord de Winter had not

been willing to listen to him.

“Weak or strong,” repeated Milady, “that man has, then, a spark of pity

in his soul; of that spark I will make a flame that shall devour him.

As to the other, he knows me, he fears me, and knows what he has to

expect of me if ever I escape from his hands. It is useless, then, to

attempt anything with him. But Felton—that’s another thing. He is a

young, ingenuous, pure man who seems virtuous; him there are means of

destroying.”

And Milady went to bed and fell asleep with a smile upon her lips.

Anyone who had seen her sleeping might have said she was a young girl

dreaming of the crown of flowers she was to wear on her brow at the

next festival.