“I am in the hands of mine 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

Winter. And as to this book,” added she, pointing to the ritual with her finger, but without touching it, as

though she would be contaminated by the touch, “you may carry it back and make use of it yourself; for doubtless

you are doubly Lord Winter’s accomplice—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 thoughtfully.
Then she threw herself upon her knees and began to pray.
“My God, my God!” said she, “Thou knowest in what holy cause I suffer; give me, then, the strength to suffer.”
The door opened gently; the beautiful suppliant pretended not to hear the noise, and in a voice broken by tears

she continued,
“God of vengeance! God of goodness! wilt Thou allow this man’s frightful projects to be accomplished?”
Then only did she feign to hear the sound of Felton’s steps; and rising projects as thought, she blushed, as if

ashamed of being surprised on her knees.
“I do not like to disturb those who pray, madame,” said Felton seriously; “do not disturb yourself on my

account, I beseech you.”
“How do you know I was praying, sir?” said milady, in a voice choked by sobs. “You were mistaken, sir; I was

not praying.”
“Do you think, then, madame,” replied Felton, in the same serious voice, but in a milder tone—“do you think I

assume the right of preventing a creature from prostrating herself before her Creator? God forbid! Besides,

repentance is becoming to the guilty. Whatever crimes they may have committed, for me the guilty are sacred at the

feet of God.”
“Guilty!—I?” said milady, with a smile which might have disarmed the angel of the last judgment. “Guilty! Oh,

my God, Thou knowest whether I am guilty! Say I am condemned, sir, if you please; but you know that God, who loves

martyrs, sometimes permits the innocent to be condemned.”
“Were you condemned, were you innocent, were you a martyr,” replied Felton, “the greater would be the need of

prayer; and I myself will aid you with my prayers.”
“Oh, you are just a man!” cried milady, throwing herself on her knees at his feet. “I can stand it no longer,

for I fear I shall be wanting in strength in the moment at which I shall be forced to undergo the struggle and

confess my faith. Listen, then, to the supplication of a despairing woman. You are made a tool of, sir; but that

is not the question. I ask you only one favour, and if you grant it me, I will bless you in this world and in the

world to come.”
“Speak to the master, madame,” said Felton; “happily I am not charged with the power either of pardoning or

punishing. God has laid this responsibility on one higher placed than I am.”
“To you—no, to you alone! Listen to me rather than contribute to my destruction, rather than contribute to my

ignominy.”
“If you have deserved this shame, madame, if you have incurred this ignominy, you must submit to it as an

offering to God.”
“What do you say? Oh, you do not understand me! When I speak of ignominy, you think I speak of some punishment or

other, of imprisonment or death! Would to Heaven it were no worse! Of what consequence to me is imprisonment or

death?”
“I no longer understand you, madame,” said Felton.
“Or, rather, you pretend not to understand me, sir!” replied the prisoner, with a doubting smile.
“No, madame, on the honour of a soldier, on the faith of a Christian.”
“What! You are ignorant of Lord Winter’s designs on me?”
“I am.”
“Impossible! You are his confidant!”
“I never lie, madame.” “Oh, he makes too little concealment of them for you not to guess them.”
“I seek to guess nothing, madame; I wait till I am confided in; and apart from what Lord Winter has said to me

before you, he has confided nothing to me.”
“why, then,” cried milady, with an incredible accent of truthfulness —‘why, then, you are not his accomplice;

you do not know that he destines me to a disgrace which all the punishments of the world cannot equal in horror?”
“You are mistaken, madame,” said Felton, reddening; “Lord Winter is not capable of such a crime.”
“Good!” said milady to herself; “without knowing what it is, he calls it a crime!”
Then aloud,
“The friend of the infamous is capable of everything.”
“Whom do you call the infamous?” asked Felton.
“Are there, then, in England two men to whom such an epithet can be applied?”
“You mean George Villiers?” said Felton, and his eyes flashed fire.
“Whom pagans and infidel gentiles call the Duke of Buckingham,” replied milady. “I could not have thought that

there was an Englishman in all England who would have required so long an explanation to understand of whom I was

speaking.”
“The hand of the Lord is stretched over him,” said Felton; “he will not escape the chastisement he deserves.”
Felton only expressed regarding the duke the execration which all the English felt for a man who the Catholics

themselves called the extortioner, the pillager, the profligate, and whom the Puritans styled simply Satan.
“Oh, my God, my God!” cried milady; “when I supplicate Thee to pour on this man the chastisement which is his

due, Thou knowest that I pursue not my own vengeance, but that I pray for the deliverance of a whole nation!”
“Do you know him, then?” asked Felton.
“At length he questions me!” said milady to herself, at the height of joy at having obtained so quickly such a

great result. “Oh, do I know him? Yes; to my misfortune, to my eternal misfortune!”
And milady wrung her hands, as if she had reached the very paroxysm of grief.

Felton no doubt felt within himself that his strength was deserting him, and he took several steps toward the

door; but the prisoner, whose eye was never off him, sprang after him and stopped him.
“Sir,” cried she, “be kind, be clement, listen to my prayer. That knife, which the baron’s fatal prudence

deprived me of, because he knows the use I would make of it—Oh, hear me to the end! That knife—give it to me for

a minute only, for mercy’s, for pity’s sake! I will embrace your knees! You shall shut the door, that you may be

certain I am not angry with you! My God! the idea of being angry with you, the only just, good, and compassionate

being I have met with!—you, my saviour perhaps! One minute, that knife, one minute, a single minute, and I will

restore it to you through the grating of the door; only one minute, Mr. Felton, and you will have saved my honour.

”
“To kill yourself?” cried Felton, in terror, forgetting to withdraw his hands from the hands of the prisoner—“

to kill yourself?”
“I have said, sir,” murmured milady, lowering her voice, and allowing herself to sink overpowered to the ground

—“I have told my secret! He knows all—My God, I am lost!”
Felton remained standing, motionless and undecided.
“He still doubts,” thought milady; “I have not been sufficiently genuine.”
Some one was heard walking in the corridor. Milady recognized Lord Winter’s step.
Felton recognized it also, and took a step toward the door.
Milady sprang forward.
“Oh, not a word,” said she, in a concentrated voice—“not a word to this man of all I have said to you, or I am

lost, and it would be you— you—”
Then as the steps drew near she became silent for fear of being heard, applying, with a gesture of infinite

terror, her beautiful hand to Felton’s mouth.
Felton gently pushed milady from him, and she sank into an easychair.
Lord Winter passed before the door without stopping, and they heard the sound of his footsteps in the distance.
Felton, as pale as death, remained some instants with his ear alert and listening; then, when the sound had

entirely died away, he breathed like a man awaking from a dream, and rushed out of the apartment.
“Ah,” said milady, listening in her turn to the noise of Felton’s steps, which faded away in a direction

opposite to Lord Winter’s—“ah, at length thou art mine!”
The next day, when Felton entered milady’s apartment he found her standing upon a chair, holding in her hands a

cord made of several cambric handkerchiefs torn into strips, twisted together into a kind of rope, and tied at the

ends. At the noise Felton made in opening the door milady leaped lightly to the ground and tried to hide behind

her the improvised cord she held in her hand.
The young man was even paler than usual, and his eyes, inflamed by lack of sleep, showed that he had passed a

feverish night.
Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a sternness more severe than ever.
He advanced slowly toward milady, who had sat down, and taking one end of the murderous rope, which, by mistake or

perhaps by design, she allowed to appear,
“What is this, madame?” he asked coldly.
“This? Nothing,” said milady, smiling with that melancholy expression which she knew so well how to give to her

smile. “Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I was blue, and I amused myself with twisting a rope.”
Felton turned his eyes toward that part of the wall of the apartment before which he had found milady standing in

the chair in which she was now seated, and over her head he perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for

the purpose of hanging up clothes or arms.
He started, and the prisoner saw that start; for though her eyes were cast down, nothing escaped her.
“And what were you doing standing on that chair?” asked he.
“What difference does that make to you?” replied milady.
“But,” replied Felton, “I wish to know.”
“Do not question me,” said the prisoner; “you know that we true Christians are forbidden to tell falsehoods.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you were going to do: you were

going to finish the fatal work you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids us to tell

falsehoods, He much more severely forbids suicide.”
“When God sees one of His creatures unjustly persecuted, placed between suicide and dishonour, believe me, sir,”

replied milady, in a tone of deep conviction, “God pardons suicide, for then suicide is martyrdom.”
“You say either too much or too little. Speak, madame; in Heaven’s name, explain yourself.”
“They have eyes,” repeated milady, with an accent of indescribable grief, “but they see not; ears have they,

but they hear not.”
“But,” cried the young officer, “speak, speak, then!”
“Confide my shame to you!” cried milady, with the blush of modesty on her face—“for often the crime of one

becomes the shame of another —confide my shame to you, a man, and I a woman! Oh,” continued she, placing her

hand modestly over her beautiful eyes, “never! never! —I could not.”
Milady had achieved a half-triumph, and the success obtained doubled her strength.
“You promised me something.”
“What? My God!” said the young man, who, in spite of his self- command, felt his knees tremble and the sweat

start from his brow.
“You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our conversation.”
“Say no more of that, madame,” said Felton. “There is no situation, however terrible, that can authorize one of

God’s creatures to inflict death upon itself. I have reflected that I could never become guilty of such a sin.”
“Ah, you have reflected!” said the prisoner, sitting down in her armchair with a smile of disdain; “and I also

have reflected.”

“About what?”
“That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word.”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Felton.
“You may retire,” said milady. “I shall not speak.”
“Here is the knife,” said Felton, drawing from his pocket the weapon which, according to his promise, he had

brought, but which he hesitated to give to his prisoner.
“Let me see it,” said milady.
“For what purpose?”
“On my honour I will instantly return it to you. You shall place it on that table, and you may remain between it

and me.”
Felton handed the weapon to milady, who examined the temper of it attentively, and tried the point on the tip of

her finger.
“Well,” said she, returning the knife to the young officer, “this is fine and good steel. You are a faithful

friend, Felton.”
Felton took back the weapon and laid it on the table, in accordance with his agreement with his prisoner.
Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction.
“Now,” said she, “listen to me.”
The recommendation was useless. The young officer was standing before her, awaiting her words as if to devour

them.
“Felton,” said milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy, “if your sister, your father’s daughter, said to

you,
“While still young, unfortunately beautiful, I was dragged into a snare. I resisted. Ambushes, acts of violence,

were multiplied around me. I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were blasphemed because I called to

my aid my religion and my God. I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and when they could not ruin my soul

they determined to defile my body for ever. Finally—”
Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.
“Finally,” said Felton—finally, what did they do?”
“Finally, one evening, they resolved to paralyze my unconquerable resistance. One evening a powerful narcotic was

mixed with my water. Scarcely had I finished my repast when I felt myself sink by degrees into a strange torpor.

Though I was without suspicion, a vague fear seized me, and I tried to struggle against sleep. I arose. I

endeavoured to run to the window and call for help, but my legs refused to carry me. It seemed as if the ceiling

were sinking down on my head and crushing me under its weight. I stretched out my arms; I tried to speak; I could

only utter inarticulate sounds. An irresistible faintness came over me. I supported myself by an armchair, feeling

that I was about to fall, but this support was soon insufficient for my weak arms. I fell on one knee, then on

both. I tried to pray, but my tongue was frozen. God, doubtless, neither heard nor saw me, and I sank down on the

floor, a prey to a sleep which was like death.
“Of all that passed during my sleep, or the time that glided away while it lasted, I have no recollection. The

only thing I recollect is, that I woke in bed, in a round chamber, the furniture of which was sumptuous and into

which light penetrated only by an opening in the ceiling. Moreover, no door seemed to give entrance to the room.

It might have been called a magnificent prison.
“It was long before I could make out where I was, or could take account of the details I describe. My mind seemed

to strive in vain to shake off the heavy darkness of the sleep from which I could not rouse myself. I had vague

perceptions of a space travelled over, of the rolling of a carriage, of a horrible dream in which my strength was

exhausted; but all this was so dark and so indistinct in my mind that these events seemed to belong to another

life than mine, and yet mixed with mine by a fantastic duality.
“For some time the state into which I had fallen appeared so strange that I thought I was dreaming. I arose

tremblingly. My clothes were near me on a chair. I neither remembered having undressed myself, nor going to bed.

Then little by little the reality broke upon me, full of chaste terrors. I was no longer in the house where I had

been dwelling. As well as I could judge by the light of the sun, the day was already two-thirds gone. It was the

evening before that I had fallen asleep; my sleep, then, must have already lasted nearly twenty-four hours! What

had happened during this long sleep?
“I dressed myself as quickly as possible. My slow and stiff motions all attested that the effects of the narcotic

were still not entirely dissipated. The chamber was evidently furnished for a woman’s reception; and the most

finished coquette could not have formed a wish which, on looking round the apartment, she would not have found

gratified.
“Certainly I was not the first captive who had been shut up in this splendid prison. But you understand, Felton,

the more superb the prison, the greater was my terror.
“Yes, it was a prison, for I vainly tried to get out of it. I sounded all the walls in the hopes of discovering a

door, but everywhere the walls returned a full, dull sound.
“I made the circuit of the room perhaps twenty times, in search of an outlet of some kind; there was none. I sank

exhausted with fatigue and terror into an armchair.
“In the meantime night was rapidly coming on, and with night my terrors increased. I did not know but I had best

remain where I was seated. I seemed to be surrounded by unknown dangers, into which I was likely to fall at every

step. Although I had eaten nothing since the evening before, my fears prevented me from feeling hungry.
“No noise from without by which I could measure the time reached me. I only supposed it might be seven or eight o

’clock in the evening, for it was October and quite dark.
“All at once a door, creaking on its hinges, made me start. A globe of fire appeared above the glazed opening of

the ceiling, casting a strong light into my chamber, and I perceived with terror that a man was standing within a

few paces of me.

“A table, with two covers, bearing a supper ready prepared, stood, as if by magic, in the middle of the

apartment.
“That man was he who had pursued me during a whole year, who had vowed my dishonour, and who, by the first words

that issued from his mouth, gave me to understand he had accomplished it the preceding night.”
“The scoundrel!” murmured Felton.
“Oh yes, the scoundrel!” cried milady, seeing the interest which the young officer, whose soul seemed to hang on

her lips, took in her strange story—“oh yes, the scoundrel! He believed that, by having triumphed over me in my

sleep, all was completed. He came, hoping that I should accept my shame, since my shame was consummated. He came

to offer his fortune in exchange for my love.
“Alas! my desperate resistance could not last long. I felt my strength fail, and this time it was not my sleep

that enabled the scoundrel to prevail, but my swooning.”
Felton listened without making any sound but a kind of suppressed roar. Only the sweat streamed down his marble

brow, and his hand, under his coat, tore his breast.
“My first impulse on coming to myself was to feel under my pillow for the knife I had not been able to reach. If

it had not come into play for defence, it might at least serve in expiation.
“‘Ah, ha!’ cried he, seizing my arm, and wresting from me the weapon, ‘you want to take my life, do you, my

pretty Puritan? But this is more than dislike, this is ingratitude! Come, come, calm yourself, my sweet girl! I

thought you were become kinder. I am not one of those tyrants who detain women by force. You don’t love me. With

my usual fatuity, I doubted it; now I am convinced. To-morrow you shall be free.’
“I had but one wish, and that was that he should kill me.
“‘Beware!’ said I, ‘for my liberty is your dishonour.’
“‘Explain yourself, my pretty sibyl.’
“‘Yes; for no sooner shall I have left this place than I will tell everything. I will proclaim the violence you

have used toward me. I will describe my captivity. I will denounce this palace of infamy. You are placed very

high, my lord, but tremble! Above you there is the king. Above the king there is God.’
“Perfect master as he seemed over himself, my persecutor allowed a movement of anger to escape him. I could not

see the expression of his face, but I felt the arm on which my hand was placed tremble.
“‘Then you shall not go from here,’ said he.
“At these words he retired. I heard the door open and shut, and I remained overwhelmed, yet less, I confess, by

my grief than by the shame of not having avenged myself.”

Chapter 48 - A Device of Classical Tragedy
After a moment’s silence, employed by milady in observing the young man who was listening to her, milady

continued her recital.
“When evening came I was so weak that almost every instant I fainted, and every time that I fainted I thanked

God, for I thought I was going to die.
“In the midst of one of these fainting fits I heard the door open. Terror recalled me to myself.
“He entered the apartment, followed by a man in a mask. He himself was masked, but I knew his step, I knew his

voice. I knew him by that imposing carriage which hell bestowed on his person for the curse of humanity.
“‘Well,’ said he to me, ‘have you made up your mind?’
“‘You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard, and that is to pursue you on earth before the

tribunal of men, in heaven before the tribunal of God.’
“‘You persist, then?’
“‘I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole world as a witness of your crime, and that until

I have found an avenger.’
“‘Executioner,’ said he, ‘do your duty.”’
“Oh, his name, his name!” cried Felton; “tell it me!”
“Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance—for I began to realize that for me there was a question of

something worse than death—the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor, bruised me with his rough grasp.

Suffocated by sobs, almost without consciousness, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I suddenly uttered a

frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my

shoulder.”
Felton uttered a groan.
“Here,” said milady, rising with the majesty of a queen—“here, Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a

young girl, pure, and yet the victim of a scoundrel’s brutality. Learn to know the hearts of men, and henceforth

make yourself less easily the instrument of their unjust revenges.”
Milady, with a swift gesture, opened her dress, tore the cambric that covered her bosom, and, red with feigned

anger and simulated modesty, showed the young man the ineffaceable impression which dishonoured her beautiful

shoulder.
“But,” cried Felton, “it is a fleur-de-lis which I see there.”
“And therein consisted the infamy,” replied milady. “The brand of England!—it would have been necessary to

prove what tribunal had imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all the tribunals of the

kingdom; but the brand of France!—oh, by that, by that I was branded indeed!”
This was too much for Felton.
Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation, dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman, who

unveiled herself before him with a shamelessness which appeared to him sublime, he ended by falling on his knees.
“Pardon! pardon!” cried Felton; “oh, pardon!”
Milady read in his eyes, “Love! love!”
“Pardon for what?” asked she.
“Pardon me for having joined your persecutors.”
Milady held out her hand to him.
“So beautiful! so young!” cried Felton, covering that hand with his kisses.
Milady cast on him one of those looks which make a slave into a king.
Felton was a Puritan. He dropped this woman’s hand to kiss her feet.
He more than loved her; he adored her.
When this crisis was past; when milady seemed to have recovered her self-control, which she had not lost even for

an instant; when Felton had seen her cover again with the veil of chastity those treasures of love which were

concealed from him only to make him desire them the more ardently,
“Ah, now!” said he, “I have only one thing to ask of you—that is, the name of your true executioner. For in my

eyes there is but one. The other was the instrument, that was all.”
“What, brother!” cried milady; “must I name him? Have you not yet divined who he is?”
“What!” cried Felton; “he!—he again!—he always! What!—the real culprit!”
“The real culprit,” said milady, “is the ravager of England, the persecutor of true believers, the cowardly

ravisher of the honour of so many women—he who, to satisfy a caprice of his corrupt heart, is about to make

England shed so much blood, who protects the Protestants to-day and will betray them to-morrow—”
“Buckingham! Then it is Buckingham!” cried Felton, in exasperation.

Milady hid her face in her hands, as if she could not endure the shame which this name recalled to her.
“Buckingham, the executioner of this angelic creature!” cried Felton. “And Thou hast not hurled Thy thunder at

him, my God! And Thou hast left him noble, honoured, powerful, for the ruin of us all!”
“God abandons him who abandons himself,” said milady.
“But He will draw down on his head the punishment reserved for the damned!” said Felton, with increasing

excitement. “He wishes that human vengeance should precede heavenly justice.”
“Men fear him and spare him.”
“I,” said Felton—“I do not fear him, nor will I spare him!”
Milady felt her soul bathed in a hellish joy.
Several knocks resounded on the door. This time milady really pushed him away from her.
“Hark!” said she; “we have been overheard. Some one is coming! All is over! We are lost!”
“No,” said Felton; “it is only the sentinel warning me that they are about to change guard.”
“Then run to the door and open it yourself.”
Felton obeyed. This woman was already his whole thought, his whole soul.
He found a sergeant in command of a watch patrol.
“Well, what is the matter?” asked the young lieutenant.
“You told me to open the door if I heard any one cry out,” said the soldier; “but you forgot to leave me the

key. I heard you cry out without understanding what you said. I tried to open the door, but it was locked inside;

then I called the sergeant.”
“And here I am,” said the sergeant.
Felton, bewildered, almost mad, stood speechless.
Milady, perceiving that it was now her turn to come forward, ran to the table, and seizing the knife which Felton

had laid down,
“And what right have you to prevent me from dying?” said she.
“Great God!” exclaimed Felton, on seeing the knife glitter in her hand.
At that moment a burst of ironical laughter resounded through the corridor. Attracted by the noise, the baron, in

his dressing-gown, his sword under his arm, was standing in the doorway.
“Ah, ha!” said he; “here we are, at the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has gone through

all the phases I named. But be at ease; no blood will flow.”
Milady perceived that all was lost unless she gave Felton an instant and terrible proof of her courage.
“You are mistaken, my lord—blood will flow; and may that blood fall back on those who cause it to flow!”
Felton uttered a cry and rushed toward her. He was too late; milady had stabbed herself.
But the knife had very fortunately, we should say skilfully, come in contact with the steel busk which at that

period, like a cuirass, defended women’s bosoms; it had glided down it, tearing her dress, and had penetrated

slantingly between the flesh and the ribs.
Milady’s robe was none the less stained with blood in a second. Milady fell backward and seemed to have fainted.
Felton snatched away the knife.
“See, my lord,” said he, in a deep, gloomy tone, “here is a woman who was under my guard, and who has killed

herself!”
“Do not worry, Felton,” said Lord Winter. “She is not dead; demons do not die so easily. Do not worry, but go

wait for me in my chamber.”
“But my lord—”
“Go, sir; I command you.”
At this injunction from his superior, Felton obeyed; but as he went out he put the knife into his bosom.
Lord Winter contented himself with calling the woman who waited on milady, and when she came he recommended the

prisoner, who was still in a swoon, to her care, and left her alone with her.
But as the wound after all might be serious, he immediately sent off a man on horseback to fetch a doctor.

Chapter 49 - Escape
As Lord Winter had thought, milady’s wound was not dangerous. So soon as she was left alone with the woman whom

the baron had summoned, and who hastened to her, she opened her eyes.
It was necessary, however, to affect weakness and pain, but this was not a very difficult task for an actress like

milady. Thus the poor woman was completely the prisoner’s dupe, and notwithstanding her entreaties, she persisted

in watching all night.
But this woman’s presence did not prevent milady from thinking.
There was no longer any doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was hers. If an angel appeared to that young man

to accuse milady, he would certainly, in that disposition of mind he was then in, regard him as a messenger from

the demon.
Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was henceforth her only hope, her only means of safety.
But Lord Winter might have suspected him! But Felton himself might now be watched!
Toward four o’clock in the morning the doctor came. Since milady had stabbed herself the wound had already

closed. The doctor could therefore measure neither its direction nor depth. He only recognized by milady’s pulse

that her case was not serious.
In the morning milady, under the pretence of not having slept during the night and wanting rest, sent away the

woman who attended her.
She had one hope—that Felton would appear at the breakfast hour; but Felton did not come.
Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron, about to fail her at the decisive moment? She had

only one day left. Lord Winter had announced her embarkation for the 23rd, and it was now the morning of the 22nd.
Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the dinner hour.
Though she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was brought in at its usual time. Milady then perceived

with terror that the uniform of the soldiers who guarded her was changed.
Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton.
She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on horseback. She inquired whether the baron was still at

the castle. The soldier replied that he was, and that he had given orders to be informed if the prisoner wished to

speak to him.
Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her only desire was to be left alone.
The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served.
Felton was sent away; the marines were changed. Felton, then, was mistrusted!
This was the last blow to the prisoner.
Left alone, she got up. The bed in which she had remained for prudence, and in order that she might be believed to

be seriously wounded, burnt her like a blazing fire. She cast a glance at the door. The baron had had a plank

nailed over the grating. He feared, no doubt, that through this opening she might still, by some diabolical means,

succeed in corrupting her guards.
At six o’clock Lord Winter came in. He was armed to the teeth. This man, in whom milady till that time had only

seen a rather silly gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He appeared to foresee everything, to divine

everything, to anticipate everything.
A single look at milady informed him of all that was passing in her mind.
“Ay!” said he, “I see; but you will not kill me to-day either. You have no longer a weapon; and besides, I am

on my guard. You began to pervert my poor Felton. He was already yielding to your infernal influence. But I intend

to save him. He will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes together; to-morrow you will go. I had

fixed the embarkation for the 24th. But I have reflected that the more promptly the affair takes place, the more

certain it will be. To-morrow at noon I shall have the order for your exile, signed ‘Buckingham.’ Au revoir,

then. That is all I have to say to you to-day. To-morrow I will see you again, to take my leave of you.”
And at these words the baron went out.
The supper was served. Milady felt that she needed all her strength. She did not know what might take place during

this night, which was approaching portentously, for enormous clouds were rolling over the face of the sky, and

distant lightning announced a storm.
Suddenly she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a flash of lightning she saw the face of a man appear

behind the bars.
She ran to the window and opened it.
“Felton!” cried she. “I am saved!”
“Yes,” said Felton; “but be silent, be silent! I must have time to file through these bars. Only take care that

they do not see me through the grating of the door.”
“Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton!” replied milady. “The grating is closed with a board.

”
“That is well; God has made them mad!” said Felton.
Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning of the storm she

heard the grinding of the file on the bars, and by the light of every flash she saw Felton’s shadow behind the

panes.

She spent an hour scarcely breathing, panting, with a cold sweat on her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful

agony at every movement she heard in the corridor.
There are hours that last a year.
At the end of an hour Felton tapped again.
Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed made an opening large enough for a man to pass

through.
“Are you ready?” asked Felton.
“Yes. Must I take anything with me?”
“Money, if you have any.”
“Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had.”
“So much the better, for I have expended all mine in hiring a vessel.”
“Here!” said milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton’s hands. Felton took the bag and threw it to the

foot of the wall.
“Now,” said he, “will you come?”
“I am here.”
Milady climbed on a chair, and leaned the upper part of her body through the window. She saw the young officer

suspended over the abyss by a rope ladder. For the first time a feeling of terror reminded her that she was a

woman. The dark space frightened her.
“I expected this,” said Felton.
“Oh, it’s nothing, it’s nothing!” said milady; “I will descend with my eyes shut.”
“Have you confidence in me?” said Felton.
“Can you ask me such a question?”
“Put your two hands together. Cross them; that’s right!”
Felton fastened her two wrists together with a handkerchief, and then tied a cord over the handkerchief.
“What are you doing?” asked milady in surprise.
“Put your arms round my neck, and fear nothing.”
“But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to pieces.”
“Don’t be afraid. I am a sailor.”
Not a second was to be lost. Milady put her arms round Felton’s neck, and let herself slip out of the window.
Felton began to descend the ladder slowly, step by step. In spite of the weight of their bodies, the blast of the

hurricane made them swing to and fro in the air.
“Now,” said Felton, “we are safe!”
Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted.
Felton continued to descend. When he reached the bottom of the ladder, and found no more support for his feet, he

clung to it with his hands. At length, coming to the last round, he hung by his hands and touched the ground. He

stooped down, picked up the bag of money, and took it in his teeth.
Then he seized milady in his arms, and set off briskly in the direction opposite to the one the patrol had taken.

He soon left the beat, climbed across the rocks, and when he reached the shore of the sea, whistled.
A similar signal replied to him, and five minutes after a boat appeared, rowed by four men.
“To the sloop,” said Felton, “and give way lively.”
A black speck was rocking on the sea. It was the sloop.
While the boat was advancing with all the speed its four oarsmen could give it, Felton untied the cord, and then

the handkerchief that bound milady’s hands together.
They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied.
“What vessel is this?” asked milady.
“One I hired for you.”
“Where is it going to carry me?”
“Wherever you please, after you have landed me at Portsmouth.”
“What are you going to do at Portsmouth?” asked milady.
“Fulfil Lord Winter’s orders,” said Felton, with a gloomy smile.
“What orders?” insisted milady.
“Do you not understand?” asked Felton.
“No; explain yourself, I beg of you.”
“As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in his place to get Buckingham to sign the

order for your transportation.”
“But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?”
“Could I be supposed to know what I was the bearer of?”
“True! And you are going to Portsmouth?”
“I have no time to lose. To-morrow is the 23rd, and Buckingham sets sail to-morrow with his fleet.”
“He sets sail to-morrow! Where for?”
“For Rochelle.”
“He must not sail!” cried milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind.
“Do not worry!” replied Felton; “he will not sail.”
Milady started with joy. She had just read to the depths of this young man’s heart: Buckingham’s death was

written there at full length.
“Felton,” cried she, “you are as great as Judas Maccab?us! If you die, I will die with you; that is all I can

say to you.”
“Silence!” cried Felton; “we are here.”
In fact they were grazing the sloop.
Felton climbed up the ladder first, and gave milady his hand, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was

still very turbulent.
An instant after they were on the deck.
“Captain,” said Felton, “this is the lady of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to

France.
“In the meanwhile,” he continued, “convey me to the little bay of—; you know it was agreed you should put in

there.”
The captain replied by ordering the necessary man?uvres, and toward seven o’clock in the morning the little

vessel was casting anchor in the designated bay.
During this passage Felton related everything to milady—how, instead of going to London, he had hired the little

vessel; how he had returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the interstices of the stones as he

ascended, to give him foothold; and how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened his ladder. Milady knew the

rest.
Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project, but at the first words that issued from her mouth she plainly saw

that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged on.
It was agreed that milady should wait for Felton till ten o’clock. If he did not return by ten o’clock, she was

to sail without him.
Then, in case he was free, he was to rejoin her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites, at Béthune.

Chapter 50 - What took place at Portsmouth, August 23, 1628
Felton took leave of milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk takes leave of his sister—by kissing her

hand.
He entered Portsmouth about eight o’clock in the morning. The whole population was on foot. Drums were beating in

the streets and in the port. The troops about to be embarked were marching toward the sea.
Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty covered with dust and streaming with perspiration. His face, usually

so pale, was purple with heart and passion. The sentinel was about to keep him away, but Felton called to the

officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket the letter of which he was the bearer,
“A pressing message from Lord Winter,” said he.
At the name of Lord Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace’s most intimate friends, the officer of the post

gave orders to pass Felton, who, indeed, wore a naval officer’s uniform.
Felton darted into the palace.
At the moment he entered the vestibule another man was entering likewise, covered with dust and out of breath,

leaving at the gate a post- horse, which, as soon as he had alighted from it, sank down exhausted.
Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke’s confidential valet, at the same moment. Felton named Lord Winter. The

stranger would give no name, and asserted that he could make himself known to the duke alone. Each insisted on

being admitted before the other.
Patrick, who knew Lord Winter had official dealings and friendly relations with the duke, gave the preference to

the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easy to see how he cursed the delay.
The valet led Felton through a large hall, in which were waiting the deputies from Rochelle, headed by the Prince

de Soubise, and introduced him into a closet, where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, on

which, as usual, he was bestowing extraordinary attention.
“Lieutenant Felton, from Lord Winter,” said Patrick.
“From Lord Winter!” repeated Buckingham. “Let him come in.”
Felton entered. He held the knife with which milady had stabbed herself open in his bosom. With one bound he was

on the duke.
At that moment Patrick entered the room, crying,
“A letter from France, my lord!”
“From France!” cried Buckingham, forgetting everything on thinking from whom that letter came.
Felton took advantage of this moment, and plunged the knife into his side up to the handle.
“Ah, traitor!” cried Buckingham, “thou hast killed me!”
“Murder!” screamed Patrick.
Felton cast his eyes round for means of escape, and seeing the door free, he rushed into the next chamber, in

which, as we said, the deputies from Rochelle were waiting, crossed it as quickly as possible, and sprang toward

the staircase. But on the first step he met Lord Winter, who, seeing him pale, wild, livid, and stained with

blood, both on his hands and face, seized him by the throat, crying,
“I knew it! I guessed it! A minute too late! Oh, unfortunate, unfortunate that I am!”Felton made no resistance.

Lord Winter placed him in the hands of the guards, who led him, until they should receive fresh orders, to a

little terrace looking out over the sea; and then he rushed into Buckingham’s room.
At the cry uttered by the duke and Patrick’s scream the man whom Felton had met in the antechamber darted into

the closet.
He found the duke lying on a sofa, with his hand pressed convulsively over the wound.
“La Porte,” said the duke in a faint voice—“La Porte, do you come from her?”
“Yes, monseigneur,” replied Anne of Austria’s faithful cloakbearer, “but too late, perhaps.”
“Silence, La Porte; you may be overheard.—Patrick, let no one enter. —Oh, I shall not know what she says to me!

—My God! I am dying!”
And the duke fainted.
The duke, however, was not dead. He recovered a little, opened his eyes, and hope revived in all hearts.
“Gentlemen,” said he, “leave me alone with Patrick and La Porte.— Ah, is that you, De Winter? You sent me a

strange madman this morning. See what a condition he has brought me to!”
“Oh, my lord!” cried the baron, “I shall never console myself for it.”
“And you would be quite wrong, my dear De Winter,” said Buckingham, holding out his hand to him; “I do not know

the man who deserves being regretted during the whole of another man’s life. But leave us, I pray you.”
The baron went out sobbing.
Only the wounded duke, La Porte, and Patrick remained in the closet. A surgeon had been sent for, but none could

be found.
“You will live, my lord, you will live!” repeated Anne of Austria’s faithful servant, on his knees before the

duke’s sofa.
“What did she write me?” said Buckingham feebly, streaming with blood and suppressing his frightful agony to

speak of her he loved; “what did she write me? Read me her letter.”
“Oh, my lord!” said La Porte.

“Obey, La Porte. Do you not see I have no time to lose?”
La Porte broke the seal and placed the paper before the duke’s eyes; but Buckingham tried in vain to make out the

writing.
“Read it!” said he—“read it! I cannot see. Read, then! for soon, perhaps, I shall not hear, and I shall die

without knowing what she has written me.”
La Porte made no further objection, and read,
“Milord,—By what I have suffered by you and for you since I have known you, I conjure you, if you have any care

for my repose, to interrupt those great armaments which you are preparing against France, to put an end to a war

the ostensible cause of which is publicly said to be religion, and the hidden and real cause of which is privately

whispered to be your love for me. This war may bring not only great catastrophes on England and France, but

misfortunes on you, milord, for which I should never console myself.
“Be careful of your life, which is threatened, and which will be dear to me from the moment I am not obliged to

see an enemy in you.—Your affectionate
“Anne.”
Buckingham collected all his remaining strength to listen to the reading of the letter. Then when it was ended, as

if he had met with a bitter disappointment in it,
“Have you nothing else to say to me verbally, La Porte?” asked he.
“Yes, monseigneur. The queen charged me to bid you be on your guard, for she has been informed that your

assassination would be attempted.”
“And is that all, is that all?” replied Buckingham impatiently.
“She likewise charged me to tell you that she still loved you.”
“Ah,” said Buckingham, “God be praised! My death, then, will not be to her as the death of a stranger.”
La Porte burst into tears.
“Patrick,” said the duke, “bring me the casket in which the diamond studs were kept.”
Patrick brought the object desired, which La Porte recognized as having belonged to the queen.
“Now the white satin sachet on which her monogram is embroidered in pearls.”
Patrick again obeyed.
“Here, La Porte,” said Buckingham, “these are the only remembrances I ever received from her—this silver

casket and these two letters. You will restore them to her Majesty; and as a last memorial” —he looked round for

some valuable object—“you will add to them—”
He still looked; but his eyes, darkened by death, saw only the knife which had fallen from Felton’s hand, still

steaming with the red blood spread over its blade.
“And you will add to them this knife,” said the duke, pressing the hand of La Porte.
He had just strength enough to place the sachet at the bottom of the silver casket, and to let the knife fall into

it, making a sign to La Porte that he was no longer able to speak. Then in a last convulsion, which he had no

longer the power to resist, he slipped from the sofa to the floor.
Patrick uttered a loud cry.
Buckingham tried to smile a last time, but death checked his wish, which remained graven on his brow like a last

kiss of love.
As soon as Lord Winter saw Buckingham was dead he ran to Felton, whom the soldiers were still guarding on the

terrace of the palace.
“Miserable wretch!” said he to the young man, who since Buckingham’s death had regained the coolness and self-

possession which was never again to abandon him—“miserable wretch! What hast thou done?”
“I have avenged myself!” said he.
“Avenged yourself!” said the baron. “Rather say that you have served as an instrument for that cursed woman.

But I swear to you that this crime shall be her last.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” replied Felton quietly, “and I am ignorant of whom you are speaking, my lord. I

killed the Duke of Buckingham because he twice refused your request to have me appointed captain. I punished him

for his injustice, that is all.”
De Winter, stupefied, looked on while the soldiers bound Felton, and did not know what to think of such

insensibility.
“Be punished alone, in the first place, miserable man!” said Lord Winter to Felton, “but I swear to you, by the

memory of my brother whom I loved so much, that your accomplice is not saved.”
Felton hung down his head without pronouncing a syllable.
Lord Winter descended the stairs rapidly, and went to the port.

Chapter 51 - In France
During all this time nothing new happened in the camp at Rochelle. Only the king, who was much bored as usual, but

perhaps a little more so in the camp than elsewhere, resolved to go incognito and spend the festival of St. Louis

at St. Germain, and asked the cardinal to order him an escort of twenty musketeers only. The cardinal, who was

sometimes affected by the king’s unrest, granted this leave of absence with great pleasure to his royal

lieutenant, who promised to return about the 15th of September.
M. de Tréville, on being informed by his Eminence, packed his portmanteau, and as, without knowing the cause, he

knew the great desire and even imperative need that his friends had of returning to Paris, he fixed on them, of

course, to form part of the escort.
The four young men heard the news a quarter of an hour after M. de Tréville, for they were the first to whom he

communicated it. Then D’Artagnan appreciated the favour the cardinal had conferred on him by transferring him at

last to the musketeers, for had it not been for that circumstance, he would have been forced to remain in the camp

while his companions left it.
His impatience to return toward Paris, of course, had for its cause the danger which Madame Bonacieux would run of

meeting at the convent of Béthune with milady, her mortal enemy. Aramis, therefore, as we have said, had written

immediately to Marie Michon, the seamstress at Tours, who had such fine acquaintances, to obtain from the queen

permission for Madame Bonacieux to leave the convent, and to retire either into Lorraine or Belgium. They had not

long to wait for an answer, and eight or ten days later Aramis received the following letter:
“My dear Cousin,—Here is my sister’s permission to withdraw our little servant from the convent of Béthune, the

air of which you think does not agree with her. My sister sends you her permission with great pleasure, for she is

very fond of the little girl, to whom she intends to be more serviceable hereafter.—I salute you,
“Marie Michon.”
In this letter was enclosed an order conceived in these terms:
“The superior of the convent of Béthune will place in the hands of the person who shall present this note to her

the novice who entered the convent on my recommendation and under my patronage.
“At the Louvre, August 10th, 1628.
“Anne.”
Their joy was great. They sent their lackeys on in advance with the baggage, and set out on the morning of the

16th.
The cardinal accompanied his Majesty from Surgères to Mauze, and there the king and his minister took leave of

each other with great demonstrations of friendship.
At length the escort passed through Paris on the 23rd, in the night. The king thanked M. de Tréville, and

permitted him to give out furloughs of four days, on condition that not one of those so favoured should appear in

any public place, under penalty of the Bastille.
The first four furloughs granted, as may be imagined, were to our friends. Moreover, Athos obtained of M. de

Tréville six days instead of four, and got these six days lengthened by two nights more, for they set out on the

24th at five o’clock in the evening, and as a further kindness, M. de Tréville post-dated the furlough to the

morning of the 25th.
On the evening of the 25th, as they were entering Arras, and as D’Artagnan was dismounting at the tavern of the

Golden Harrow to drink a glass of wine, a horseman came out of the post-yard, where he had just had a relay,

starting off at a gallop, with a fresh horse, on the road to Paris. At the moment he was passing through the

gateway into the street the wind blew open the cloak in which he was wrapped, though it was August, and lifted his

hat, which the traveller seized with his hand just as it left his head, and pulled it down quickly over his eyes.
D’Artagnan, who had his eyes fixed on this man, became very pale, and let his glass fall.
“What is the matter, sir?” asked Planchet.—“Oh, come, gentlemen, gentlemen! My master is ill!”
The three friends hastened to D’Artagnan, but instead of finding him ill, met him running for his horse. They

stopped him at the door.
“Now, where the devil are you going in this way?” cried Athos.
“It is he!” cried D’Artagnan, pale with passion, and with the sweat on his brow; “it is he! Let me overtake

him!”
“He—who?” asked Athos.
“He—my man!”
“What man?”
“That cursed man, my evil genius, whom I have always seen when threatened by some misfortune; he who accompanied

the horrible woman when I met her for the first time; he whom I was seeking when I offended our friend Athos; he

whom I saw on the very morning of the day Madame Bonacieux was carried off! I just saw him! It is he! I recognized

him when his cloak blew open!”
“The devil!” said Athos musingly.
“To horse, gentlemen, to horse! Let us pursue him! We shall overtake him!”
“My dear friend,” said Aramis, “remember that he’s gone in an opposite direction to that in which we are

going; that he has a fresh horse, and ours are fatigued; that consequently we shall disable our own horses without

even the chance of overtaking him. Let the man go, D’Artagnan; let us save the woman.”
“Hello, sir!” cried an hostler, running out and looking after the unknown—“hello, sir! here is a paper which

dropped out of your hat. Hello, sir! Hello!”
“Friend,” said D’Artagnan, “a half-pistole for that paper!”
“Faith, sir, with great pleasure! Here it is!”
The hostler, delighted with the good day’s work he had done, went into the yard again. D’Artagnan unfolded the

paper.
“Well?” eagerly demanded all his three friends, surrounding him.
“Only one word!” said D’Artagnan.
“Yes,” said Aramis; “but that one word is the name of some town or village.”
“Armentiéres!” read Porthos—“Armentiéres! I don’t know it.”
“And that name of a town or village is written in her hand!” cried Athos.
“Come on! come on!” said D’Artagnan; “let us keep that paper carefully; perhaps I have not lost my last

pistole. To horse, my friends, to horse!”
And the four friends galloped off on the road to Béthune.

Chapter 52 - The Carmelite Convent at Béthune
Great criminals carry with them a kind of predestination, causing them to surmount all obstacles, causing them to

escape all dangers up to the moment which Providence, exhausted, has designated as the reef of their impious

fortunes.
Thus it was with milady. She passed through the cruisers of both nations, and reached Boulogne without accident.
On landing at Portsmouth milady was an Englishwoman, driven from Rochelle by the persecutions of the French. On

landing at Boulogne, after a two days’ passage, she claimed to be a Frenchwoman, whom the English persecuted at

Portsmouth, out of their hatred for France.
Milady had likewise the most efficacious of passports—her beauty, her noble appearance, and the generosity with

which she scattered pistoles. Freed from the usual formalities by the affable smile and gallant manners of an old

governor of the port, who kissed her hand, she only stayed long enough at Boulogne to post a letter, conceived in

the following terms:
“To his Eminence Monseigneur Cardinal Richelieu, in his camp before Rochelle:
“Monseigneur, let your Eminence be reassured: his Grace the Duke of Buckingham will not set out for France.
“Boulogne, evening of the 25th.
“Lady de—.
“P.S.—According to your Eminence’s desire, I am going to the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune, where I will

await your orders.”
In fact, that same evening milady began her journey. Night overtook her. She stopped and slept at an inn. At five

o’clock the next morning she was on her way again, and three hours later entered Béthune.
She inquired for the Carmelite convent, and went to it immediately.
The superior came to meet her. Milady showed her the cardinal’s order. The abbess assigned her a chamber, and had

breakfast served.
After breakfast the abbess came to pay her a visit. There are very few distractions in the cloister, and the good

mother-superior was eager to make acquaintance with her new inmate.
Milady wished to please the abbess. Now this was an easy matter for a woman so really superior as she was. She

tried to be agreeable. She was charming, and won the good nun by her varied conversation, and by the graces of her

whole person.
But here she was greatly embarrassed. She did not know whether the abbess was a royalist or a cardinalist; she

therefore confined herself to a prudent middle course. But the abbess on her part maintained a still more prudent

reserve, contenting herself with making a profound inclination of the head every time that the fair traveller

pronounced his Eminence’s name.
Milady began to think she should be very greatly bored in the convent; so she resolved to risk something, in order

immediately to know how to act afterwards. Desirous of seeing how far the good abbess’s discretion would go, she

began to tell a scandal, carefully veiled at first, but very circumstantial afterwards, about the cardinal,

relating the minister’s amours with Madame d’Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other women of easy virtue.
The abbess listened more attentively, grew animated by degrees, and smiled.
“Good!” thought milady; “she likes my conversation. If she is a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism, at least,

in it.”
She then went on to describe the persecutions wreaked by the cardinal on his enemies. The abbess only crossed

herself without approving or disapproving. This confirmed milady in her opinion that the nun was rather a royalist

than a cardinalist. Milady, therefore, continued colouring her narrations more and more.
“I am very ignorant about all these matters,” said the abbess at length; “but though we are distant from the

court and remote from the interests of the world, we have very sad examples of what you have related; and one of

our inmates has suffered much from the cardinal’s vengeance and persecution.”
“One of your inmates!” said milady. “O Heavens! Poor woman, I pity her, then!”
“And you are right, for she is much to be pitied. Imprisonment, threats, ill-treatment—she has suffered

everything. But after all,” resumed the abbess, “the cardinal has perhaps plausible motives for acting thus; and

though she has the look of an angel, we must not always judge people by appearances.”
“The cardinal does not only pursue crimes”, said milady, “there are certain virtues which he pursues more

severely than certain offences.”
“Permit me, madame, to express my surprise,” said the abbess.
“At what?” asked milady naively.
“At the language you use.”
“What do you find so astonishing in my language?” asked milady, smiling.
“You are the cardinal’s friend, for he sends you here, and yet—”
“And yet I speak ill of him,” replied milady, finishing the mother-superior’s thought.

“At least, you don’t speak well of him.”
“That is because I am not his friend,” said she, sighing, “but his victim!”
“Then, madame,” said the abbess, smiling, “be reassured. The house in which you are will not be a very hard

prison, and we will do all in our power to make you love your captivity. You will find here, moreover, that young

woman who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence of some court intrigue. She is amiable and courteous.”
“And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great a sympathy?” asked milady.
“Why, this evening,” said the abbess; “even during the day. But you told me you had been travelling these four

days. This morning you rose at five o’clock; you must need rest. Go to bed and sleep; at dinner-time we will wake

you.”
Though milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained as she was by all the excitements that a

fresh adventure was awakening in her heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the mother-

superior’s advice. During the preceding twelve or fifteen days she had experienced so many different emotions

that if her iron frame was still capable of supporting fatigue, her mind required repose. She therefore took leave

of the abbess and went to bed.
She was awakened by a gentle voice sounding at the foot of her bed. She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess,

accompanied by a young woman with light hair and a delicate complexion, who was giving her a look full of

benevolent curiosity.
The young woman’s face was quite unknown to her. Each examined the other with great attention while exchanging

the customary compliments. Both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of beauty. Milady, however,

smiled on observing that she excelled the young woman by far in her noble air and aristocratic bearing. To be

sure, the novice’s habit which the young woman wore was not very advantageous in sustaining a contest of this

kind.
The abbess introduced them to each other. Then when this formality was accomplished, as her duties called her to

the church, she left the two young women alone.
Suddenly realization came to milady.
“I know you,” she said. “You are Madame Bonacieux.”
The young woman drew back in surprise and terror.
“Oh, do not deny it! Answer!” continued milady.
“Well, yes, madame!” said the novice.
Milady’s face was illumined by such a savage joy that in any other circumstances Madame Bonacieux would have fled

in terror. But she was absorbed by her jealousy.
“Speak, madame!” resumed Madame Bonacieux, with an energy of which one would not have thought her capable.
“Do you not understand?” said milady, who had already overcome her agitation and recovered all her presence of

mind.
“How can I understand? I know nothing.”
“Can you not understand that M. d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence?”
“Indeed!”
“Do you not perceive that I know all—your being carried off from the little house at St. Germain, his despair,

that of his friends, and their useless inquiries from that moment? How could I help being astonished when, without

having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face—you of whom we have so often spoken

together, you whom he loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had seen you! Ah, dear

Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at last!”
And milady stretched out her arms to Madame Bonacieux, who, convinced by what she had just said, saw nothing in

this woman but a sincere and devoted friend.
At that moment the galloping of a horse was heard.
“Oh!” cried Madame Bonacieux, darting to the window, “can it be he already?”
Milady stayed in bed, petrified by surprise. So many unexpected things were happening to her all at once that for

the first time she was at a loss.
“D’ Artagnan!” murmured she; “can it be he?” And she remained in bed with her eyes staring.
“Hush!” said Madame Bonacieux; “some one is coming.”
In fact, the door opened, and the mother-superior entered.
“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of milady.
“Yes, I did,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants me?”
“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”
“And wishes to speak with me?” asked milady.
“He wishes to speak to a lady just come from Boulogne.”
“Then let him come in, if you please.”
“Oh, my God, my God! my God!” cried Madame Bonacieux; “can it be any bad news?”
“I am afraid so.”
“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.”
“Certainly! I beg you will.”

The mother-superior and Madame Bonacieux retired.
Milady was left alone, with her eyes fixed on the door. An instant after the jingling of spurs was heard on the

stairs, then steps approached, the door opened, and a man appeared.
Milady uttered a cry of joy. This man was the Comte de Rochefort, the cardinal’s personal agent.
“Ah!” cried milady and Rochefort together, “so it is you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And you come?” asked milady.
“From Rochelle. And you?”
“From England.”
“Buckingham?”
“Dead or desperately wounded, as I was leaving without having succeeded in obtaining anything from him. A fanatic

assassinated him.”
“Ah!” said Rochefort, with a smile, “this is a piece of good luck— one that will delight his Eminence! Have

you informed him of it?”
“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”
“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to inquire after you.”
“What did the cardinal say with respect to me?”
“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, to return posthaste; and when he shall know what you have

done, he will think of what you have to do.”
“So I must remain here?”
“Here, or in the neighbourhood.”
“Y