“You’re right about that,” said d’Artagnan. “You’re right. I’ll drop her. I must confess, that woman terrifies me.”
“Do you have the courage to do it?” Athos said.
“I do,” replied d’Artagnan. “It’s done as of now.”
“It’s the right thing to do, my son,” said the gentleman, pressing the Gascon’s hand with an almost paternal affection. “May God grant that this woman, who has barely touched your life, leaves it without scarring you as she goes.”
Athos bowed his head, and the young man understood that he wished to be left alone with his thoughts.
On returning home, d’Artagnan found Kitty waiting for him. A month of fever couldn’t have changed the poor child more than one night of sleepless grief had.
She had been sent by her mistress to the false de Wardes. Her mistress was mad with love, intoxicated with joy. She wanted to know when her lover would grant her a second tryst—and now poor Kitty, pale and trembling, awaited d’Artagnan’s reply.
Athos had a great influence over the young man; the advice of his friend echoed the voice of his own heart, and he decided, now that his pride was salved and his vengeance satisfied, not to see Milady again. For his response, he took up a quill and wrote the following letter:
Do not count upon me, Madame, for another rendezvous. Since my convalescence I have so many affairs of this sort to attend to that I must impose a certain order upon them. When your turn comes again, I will have the honor to inform you of it.
I kiss your hands, Comte DE WARDES
About the sapphire, not a word. Did the Gascon plan to keep it as a weapon against Milady? Or, to be frank, was he retaining the sapphire as a last resource for his equipment?
It would be a mistake to judge behavior in one period from the point of view of another. An act that a gentleman of today would consider disgraceful was at that time viewed as simple and natural, during a period when the young sons of the best families were frequently supported by their mistresses.
D’Artagnan passed this letter, open, to Kitty. At first she could hardly comprehend it, but after reading it a second time she went wild with joy. Kitty could scarcely believe such happiness, and d’Artagnan had to reread it to her aloud, in his own voice, before she could accept it was true. Then, despite the danger the poor girl incurred in delivering such a letter to the hot-blooded Milady, she ran back to the Place Royale as fast as her legs could go.
The heart of even the best of women knows no pity toward a rival.
Milady was as eager to open the letter as Kitty had been to bring it—but the first words she read made her livid with rage. Crushing the paper in her hand, she turned to Kitty with fiery eyes and demanded, “What is this letter?”
“It’s just the reply to Madame’s note,” replied Kitty, trembling.
“Impossible!” cried Milady. “It’s impossible for a gentleman to have written such a letter to a woman!”
Then, starting, she said, “My God! Could he have seen . . .”
She stopped. She ground her teeth, and turned the color of ashes. She tried to get to the window for air, but as she stretched out her arms, her legs failed her and she sank onto a divan.
Kitty, who thought she was stricken ill, began to open the bodice of her dress. Milady sat up suddenly, saying, “What are you up to? Why are you laying your hands on me?”
“I . . . I thought Madame was ill and wanted to help her,” her servant said, alarmed by the terrible expression on her mistress’s face.
“Me, fall ill? Me? Do you take me for some little housewife? When I’m insulted, I am not weak or ill—I am avenged! Do you hear me?”
And with a gesture, she dismissed Kitty from the room.
XXXVI
Dreams of Vengeance
That evening Milady left orders that when d’Artagnan came at his usual time, he should be admitted immediately. But he did not come.
The next day Kitty went to see the young man once more, and told him what had happened the previous evening. D’Artagnan smiled; Milady’s jealous rage was his revenge.
That evening Milady was even more impatient than the night before, and renewed her order for immediate admission of the Gascon—but as on the night before, she waited in vain.
The next day, when Kitty presented herself at d’Artagnan’s lodgings, she was no longer lively and joyous as she’d been on the two previous days—she was as sad as death.
D’Artagnan asked the poor girl what had happened to her. Her only reply was to draw a letter from her pocket and hand it to him.
This letter was in Milady’s hand, only this time it was addressed to d’Artagnan rather than to Monsieur de Wardes. He opened it, and read the following:
Dear Monsieur d’Artagnan,
It’s wrong to neglect your friends this way, especially just when you are about to leave them for so long. My brother-in-law and myself expected you yesterday and the day before, but in vain. Will it be the same this evening?
Your most grateful, LADY CLARICE
“No surprises here,” said d’Artagnan. “I expected such a letter. My credit rises with the fall of that of the Comte de Wardes.”
“Will you allow yourself to be summoned this way?” asked Kitty.
“Listen, my dear child,” said the Gascon, groping for a way to excuse himself for breaking the promise he’d made to Athos, “you realize it would be shockingly bad manners to refuse such a direct invitation. If I quit visiting Milady without explanation she’s liable to suspect something, and who could say how far the vengeance of such a woman might go?”
“God above!” said Kitty. “You always know how to make things sound like you’re in the right. Now you’re going to pay court to her again—and this time, if you manage to please her in your own name and with your own face, everything will be even worse than before!”
The poor girl intuitively guessed what was going to happen.
D’Artagnan reassured her as best he could, and promised to remain unmoved by Milady’s seductions. He told Kitty to reply to Milady that he couldn’t be more grateful for her kindness to him, and he would comply with her orders. He didn’t dare write to her for fear that Milady’s sharp eyes would recognize his handwriting.
D’Artagnan was in the Place Royale at the stroke of nine. It was clear that the servants who waited in the antechamber had been told what to do when d’Artagnan appeared; before he’d even asked if Milady was receiving, one of them ran to announce him.
“Show him in,” Milady said sharply, in such a piercing tone that d’Artagnan could hear her in the antechamber.
As he was introduced into her chambers Milady said to her lackey, “I am at home to no one. Do you hear me? To no one.” The servant bowed and left them.
D’Artagnan cast a curious glance at Milady. She was pale and her eyes looked tired, from either crying or insomnia. The lights in the room were dimmer than usual, intentionally so, but the young woman couldn’t conceal the traces of the fever that had devoured her for the past two days.
D’Artagnan approached her with his usual gallantry. She made a supreme effort to receive him warmly, but never was such a charming smile belied by such underlying distress.
D’Artagnan asked her how she was feeling. “Ill,” she replied, “very ill.”
“But then, my visit is an indiscretion,” said d’Artagnan. “I fear you need rest. I should retire.”
“Not at all,” said Milady. “On the contrary! Please remain, Monsieur d’Artagnan, and honor me with your pleasant company.”
Uh-oh, thought d’Artagnan. She’s never been half this charming before. I’d better watch myself.
Milady was all warmth and affection, and her conversation was brilliant. Meanwhile, the fever, which had briefly abandoned her, returned full force, lending luster to her eyes, color to her cheeks, and coral to her lips. D’Artagnan found himself once again in the toils of the Circe who had formerly enwrapped him in her enchantments. His love, which he’d thought
extinct, but which was only asleep, reawakened in his heart. Milady smiled upon him, and d’Artagnan felt he would willingly damn himself for that smile.
There was even a moment when he felt something like remorse for what he’d done to her.
Gradually, Milady’s conversation became more personal. She asked d’Artagnan if he had a mistress.
“Alas!” D’Artagnan put as much feeling into the word as he could. “How can you be so cruel as to ask me such a question—of me who, from the moment I first saw you, have breathed and sighed only for you!”
Milady smiled a strange smile.
“Then, you love me?” she said.
“Do I have to tell you? Can you have missed it?”
“Maybe I have. But you know, the prouder the heart, the harder it is to capture.”
“Oh! I’m not afraid of mere difficulties,” said d’Artagnan. “I fear only impossibilities.”
“Nothing is impossible,” said Milady, “when love is true.” “Nothing, Madame?”
“Nothing,” Milady replied.
The devil! d’Artagnan thought. This is a new tune. Is there a chance she’s falling in love with me? She’s so impulsive! Is she going to give me another sapphire like the one she gave me for de Wardes? He eagerly drew his chair closer to Milady’s.
“Let’s just see,” she said, “exactly what you’d do to prove this love you speak of.”
“Anything you want of me! Just tell me—I’m ready.”
“Anything?”
“Anything!” cried d’Artagnan, who knew in advance that he didn’t risk much by such a promise.
“Well, then—let’s have a little talk.” Milady drew her own chair nearer to d’Artagnan’s.
“I’m listening.”
Milady seemed anxious and uncertain for a moment, but then appeared to come to a decision. “I have an enemy,” she said.
“You, Madame?” D’Artagnan pretended surprise. “My God! Is that possible, to someone as lovely and good as you are?”
“A mortal enemy.”
“Really?”
“An enemy who has insulted me so cruelly that between us it is war to the death. Can I count on your help?”
D’Artagnan saw right away where the vindictive creature was going. “You can, Madame!” he said emphatically. “Like my love, my arm and my life are yours!”
“Then,” said Milady, “since you’re as generous as you are loving . . .” She paused.
“Since I am . . . ?” prompted d’Artagnan.
“Since you are,” Milady replied, after a moment of silence, “then you need no longer talk of . . . impossibilities.”
“Oh, Milady!” d’Artagnan cried. “My heart overflows with happiness!” He fell to his knees, and she allowed him to cover her hands with kisses.
Avenge me on that swine de Wardes, Milady thought, and I’ll have no trouble disposing of you, you fool. You’re nothing but a living sword.
Fall willingly into my arms, d’Artagnan thought, after the way you’ve abused me, you two-faced femme fatale, and later I’ll laugh at you with the man you want me to kill.
D’Artagnan raised his head. “I am ready,” he said.
“You have understood me, then, dear Monsieur d’Artagnan?”
“I would understand your slightest glance!”
“Then you would use your strong arm for me, that arm that is already so renowned?”
“Instantly!”
“But I,” said Milady, “how could I repay such a service? I know what lovers are like—a man will take everything and give nothing in return.”
“You know the only reply I desire,” said d’Artagnan, “the only one worthy of you and me!” He drew her softly closer to him.
She resisted hardly at all. “Demanding man,” she said, smiling.
“Ah!” cried d’Artagnan, truly carried away by the passion this woman had fired in him. “It’s because this happiness is so hard to believe! I’m afraid it will vanish like a dream, so I rush to make it a reality.”
“Then do what you must to deserve such happiness.”
“I am at your orders,” said d’Artagnan.
“Are you really?” said Milady, with a final doubt.
“Just tell me the name of the dog who has brought tears to your lovely eyes!”
“Who told you I’d been crying?” she said.
“It seemed to me . . .”
“Women like me don’t cry,” Milady said.
“All the better! Come now, tell me his name.”
“You realize I’m revealing a secret.”
“Even so, you must tell me his name.”
“I know I must. Look at the confidence I have in you!”
“You drown me in joy. What is his name?”
“You know him.”
“I do?”
“Yes.”
D’Artagnan pretended to hesitate. “Surely it’s not one of my friends?”
“So if it were one of your friends, you’d hold back?” Milady said, with a menacing look.
“No, not even if it were my brother!” d’Artagnan cried, seemingly carried away with enthusiasm. The Gascon had nothing to lose, as he knew whom she meant.
“I love your devotion,” Milady said.
“Is that the only thing you love about me?” asked d’Artagnan.
“I love you, too,” she whispered, taking his hand. And the warm pressure of her fingers made d’Artagnan tremble, as if through her touch the fever that consumed Milady caught fire in him.
“You, in love with me! You!” he cried. “Oh! If that were true, I’d lose my mind!”
And he took her into his arms. She didn’t try to avoid his kisses, but she didn’t respond to them.
Her lips were cold. D’Artagnan felt as if he were embracing a statue.
He was nonetheless drunk with joy, electrified with love. He almost believed that Milady had a heart; he almost believed in the crime of de Wardes. If de Wardes had come under his hand at that instant, he’d have killed him.
Milady seized the moment. She hissed, “His name is . . .”
“De Wardes! I know it!” cried d’Artagnan.
“How do you know that?” demanded Milady. She gripped his hands and gazed at him searchingly, trying to read to the depths of his soul.
D’Artagnan realized he’d let himself get carried away and had made a serious mistake.
“Speak! Speak! Speak, I demand it!” repeated Milady. “How do you know it?”
“How do I know it?” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes!”
“I know it, because . . . yesterday, I was in a salon where de Wardes showed around a ring he said he had from you.”
“The miserable wretch!” cried Milady.
This insult, as may well be imagined, struck d’Artagnan to the bottom of his heart.
“Well?” she continued.
“Well! I shall see that you are revenged on this ‘miserable wretch’,” replied d’Artagnan, donning the bombastic airs of a knight of the stage.
“Thank you, my brave friend!” cried Milady. “And when will this vengeance take place?”
“Whenever you please: tomorrow, or this very moment.”
Milady almost burst out, “This very moment!”—but it occurred to her that d’Artagnan might find this less than gracious.
Besides, she had a thousand precautions to take, a thousand warnings to give to her defender, to make sure he said nothing to the count in the presence of witnesses that might implicate her. But all these thoughts were preempted by d’Artagnan’s next words: “Tomorrow,” said he, “you will be avenged, or I will be dead.”
“No!” she said. “You will avenge me, but you won’t die. He’s nothing but a coward.”
“Toward women, perhaps, but not toward men. I know something of him.”
“It seems to me you can’t complain about your luck in your last fight with him.”
“Luck is a fickle lover: she may favor you today, then tomorrow choose an
other.”
“In other words, now you hesitate.”
“Hesitate, me? God forbid it! But would it be just to let me go to a possible death, without having given me something more than mere hope?”
Milady replied with a look that said, Is that all? Just ask. She reinforced the look by saying tenderly, “That’s no more than fair.”
“And you . . . are an angel,” said the young man.
“Then, all is agreed?” she said.
“All, except what I should ask of you, dear heart!”
“Even though I’ve said you can count on my affection?”
“I couldn’t possibly wait till tomorrow.”
“Hush!” Milady said. “I hear my brother coming. It will do no good for him to find you here.”
She rang, and Kitty appeared.
“Go out this way,” Milady said to d’Artagnan, opening a small, concealed door. “Return at eleven, and we’ll conclude our little talk. Kitty will bring you to my chamber.”
At these words, poor Kitty froze and nearly fainted.
“What’s come over you, Mademoiselle, standing there like a statue?” Milady demanded. “On your way! Escort the chevalier out. You heard my orders—carry them out when he returns at eleven.”
It appears all these appointments are made for eleven o’clock, d’Artagnan thought. It’s a regular routine.
Milady gave him her hand, and he kissed it tenderly. Nevertheless, he said to himself, retiring in haste to avoid Kitty’s reproaches, nevertheless, I mustn’t fool myself. This woman is a terror. Watch yourself, d’Artagnan—watch yourself.
XXXVII
Milady’s Secret
Instead of going up to Kitty’s room, d’Artagnan immediately left Milady’s hôtel, despite the young girl’s desperate invitation. For this, he had two reasons: first, so he could avoid Kitty’s reproaches, recriminations, and pleas; and second, because he wanted an opportunity to organize his thoughts and, if possible, divine those of Milady.
The chief thing on his mind was the fact that, while he was madly in love with Milady, she didn’t love him in the slightest. It was clear that the best thing d’Artagnan could do would be to go home and write Milady a long letter, confessing that he and “de Wardes” were one and the same, and consequently he couldn’t engage to kill “de Wardes” without committing suicide. But he was also spurred on by a fierce desire to avenge himself by possessing this woman under his own name. The opportunity for such a revenge was too sweet to surrender.