Three Musketeers (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) (94 page)

Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes.

“Where am I?” said she.

“Saved!” replied the young officer.

“Oh, saved, saved!” cried she. “Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea! The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!”

The young man pressed her to his heart.

“But what is the matter with my hands?” asked Milady; “it seems as if my wrists had been crushed in a vice.”

Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.

“Alas!” said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking his head sorrowfully.

“Oh, it’s nothing, nothing!” cried Milady. “I remember now.”

Milady looked around her, as if in search of something.

“It is there,” said Felton, touching the bag of money with his foot.

They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat replied.

“What vessel is that?” asked Milady.

“The one I have hired for you.”

“Where will it take me?”

“Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth.”

“What are you going to do at Portsmouth?” asked Milady.

“Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter,” said Felton, with a gloomy smile.

“What orders?” asked Milady.

“You do not understand?” asked Felton.

“No; explain yourself, I beg.”

“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?”

“How could I know what I was the bearer of?”

“That’s true! And you are going to Portsmouth?”

“I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham sets sail tomorrow with his fleet.”

“He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?”

“For La Rochelle.”

“He need not sail!” cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind.

“Be satisfied,” replied Felton; “he will not sail.”

Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the heart of this young man; the death of Buckingham was written there at full length.

“Felton,” cried she, “you are as great as Judas Maccabeus!
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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 touched the sloop.

Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady, while the sailors supported her, for the sea was still much agitated.

An instant after they were on the deck.

“Captain,” said Felton, “this is the person of whom I spoke to you, and whom you must convey safe and sound to France.”

“For a thousand pistoles,” said the captain.

“I have paid you five hundred of them.”

“That’s correct,” said the captain.

“And here are the other five hundred,” replied Milady, placing her hand upon the bag of gold.

“No,” said the captain, “I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till we arrive at Boulogne.”

“And shall we arrive there?”

“Safe and sound, as true as my name’s Jack Butler.”

“Well,” said Milady, “if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I will give you a thousand pistoles.”

“Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady,” cried the captain; “and may God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!”

“Meanwhile,” said Felton, “convey me to the little bay of——; you know it was agreed you should put in there.”

The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward seven o’clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay that had been named.

During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady—how, instead of going to London, he had chartered 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.

On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but at the first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw that the young fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged.

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.

In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin her in France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Béthune.

F
elton took leave of Milady as a brother about to go for a mere walk takes leave of his sister, kissing her hand.

 

His whole body appeared in its ordinary state of calmness, only an unusual fire beamed from his eyes, like the effects of a fever; his brow was more pale than it generally was; his teeth were clenched, and his speech had a short dry accent which indicated that something dark was at work within him.

As long as he remained in the boat which conveyed him to land, he kept his face toward Milady, who, standing on the deck, followed him with her eyes. Both were free from the fear of pursuit; nobody ever came into Milady’s apartment before nine o’clock, and it would require three hours to go from the castle to London.

Felton jumped onshore, climbed the little ascent which led to the top of the cliff, saluted Milady a last time, and took his course toward the city.

At the end of a hundred paces, the ground began to decline, and he could only see the mast of the sloop.

He immediately ran in the direction of Portsmouth, which he saw at nearly half a league before him, standing out in the haze of the morning, with its houses and towers.

Beyond Portsmouth the sea was covered with vessels whose masts, like a forest of poplars despoiled by the winter, bent with each breath of the wind.

Felton, in his rapid walk, reviewed in his mind all the accusations against the favorite of James I and Charles I, furnished by two years of premature meditation and a long sojourn among the Puritans.

When he compared the public crimes of this minister—startling crimes, European crimes, if so we may say—with the private and unknown crimes with which Milady had charged him, Felton found that the more culpable of the two men which formed the character of Buckingham was the one of whom the public knew not the life. This was because his love, so strange, so new, and so ardent, made him view the infamous and imaginary accusations of Milady de Winter as, through a magnifying glass, one views as frightful monsters atoms in reality imperceptible by the side of an ant.

The rapidity of his walk heated his blood still more; the idea that he left behind him, exposed to a frightful vengeance, the woman he loved, or rather whom he adored as a saint, the emotion he had experienced, present fatigue—all together exalted his mind above human feeling.

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 embark were marching toward the sea.

Felton arrived at the palace of the Admiralty, covered with dust, and streaming with perspiration. His countenance, usually so pale, was purple with heat and passion. The sentinel wanted to repulse him; but Felton called to the officer of the post, and drawing from his pocket the letter of which he was the bearer, he said, “A pressing message from Lord de Winter.”

At the name of Lord de Winter, who was known to be one of his Grace’s most intimate friends, the officer of the post gave orders to let Felton pass, who, besides, wore the uniform of a naval officer.

Felton darted into the palace.

At the moment he entered the vestibule, another man was entering likewise, dusty, out of breath, leaving at the gate a post horse, which, on reaching the palace, tumbled on his foreknees.

Felton and he addressed Patrick, the duke’s confidential lackey, at the same moment. Felton named Lord de Winter; the unknown would not name anybody, and pretended that it was to the duke alone he would make himself known. Each was anxious to gain admission before the other.

Patrick, who knew Lord de Winter was in affairs of the service, and in relations of friendship with the duke, gave the preference to the one who came in his name. The other was forced to wait, and it was easily to be seen how he cursed the delay.

The valet led Felton through a large hall in which waited the deputies from La Rochelle, headed by the Prince de Soubise, and introduced him into a closet where Buckingham, just out of the bath, was finishing his toilet, upon which, as at all times, he bestowed extraordinary attention.

“Lieutenant Felton, from Lord de Winter,” said Patrick.

“From Lord de Winter!” repeated Buckingham; “let him come in.”

Felton entered. At that moment Buckingham was throwing upon a couch a rich toilet robe, worked with gold, in order to put on a blue velvet doublet embroidered with pearls.

“Why didn’t the baron come himself?” demanded Buckingham. “I expected him this morning.”

“He desired me to tell your Grace,” replied Felton, “that he very much regretted not having that honor, but that he was prevented by the guard he is obliged to keep at the castle.”

“Yes, I know that,” said Buckingham; “he has a prisoner.”

“It is of that prisoner I wish to speak to your Grace,” replied Felton.

“Well, then, speak!”

“That which I have to say of her can only be heard by yourself, my Lord!”

“Leave us, Patrick,” said Buckingham; “but remain within sound of the bell. I shall call you presently.”

Patrick went out.

“We are alone, sir,” said Buckingham; “speak!”

“My Lord,” said Felton, “the Baron de Winter wrote to you the other day to request you to sign an order of embarkation relative to a young woman named Charlotte Backson.”

“Yes, sir; and I answered him, to bring or send me that order and I would sign it.”

“Here it is, my Lord.”

“Give it to me,” said the duke.

And taking it from Felton, he cast a rapid glance over the paper, and perceiving that it was the one that had been mentioned to him, he placed it on the table, took a pen, and prepared to sign it.

“Pardon, my Lord,” said Felton, stopping the duke; “but does your Grace know that the name of Charlotte Backson is not the true name of this young woman?”

“Yes, sir, I know it,” replied the duke, dipping the quill in the ink.

“Then your Grace knows her real name?” asked Felton, in a sharp tone.

“I know it”; and the duke put the quill to the paper. Felton grew pale.

“And knowing that real name, my Lord,” replied Felton, “will you sign it all the same?”

“Doubtless,” said Buckingham, “and rather twice than once.”

“I cannot believe,” continued Felton, in a voice that became more sharp and rough, “that your Grace knows that it is to Milady de Winter this relates.”

“I know it perfectly, although I am astonished that you know it.”

“And will your Grace sign that order without remorse?”

Buckingham looked at the young man haughtily.

“Do you know, sir, that you are asking me very strange questions, and that I am very foolish to answer them?”

“Reply to them, my Lord,” said Felton; “the circumstances are more serious than you perhaps believe.”

Buckingham reflected that the young man, coming from Lord de Winter, undoubtedly spoke in his name, and softened.

“Without remorse,” said he. “The baron knows, as well as myself, that Milady de Winter is a very guilty woman, and it is treating her very favorably to commute her punishment to transportation.”

The duke put his pen to the paper.

“You will not sign that order, my Lord! ” said Felton, making a step toward the duke.

“I will not sign the order! And why not?”

“Because you will look into yourself, and you will do justice to the lady.”

“I should do her justice by sending her to Tyburn,” said Buckingham. “This lady is infamous.”

“My Lord, Milady de Winter is an angel; you know that she is, and I demand her liberty of you.”

“Bah! Are you mad, to talk to me thus?” said Buckingham.

“My Lord, excuse me! I speak as I can; I restrain myself. But, my Lord, think of what you are about to do, and beware of going too far!”

“What do you say? God pardon me!” cried Buckingham, “I really think he threatens me!”

“No, my Lord, I still plead. And I say to you: one drop of water suffices to make the full vase overflow; one slight fault may draw down punishment upon the head spared, despite many crimes. ”

“Mr. Felton,” said Buckingham, “you will withdraw, and place yourself at once under arrest.”