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, ingenious, 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.

Date: 2015-01-29; view: 681