The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [194]
“Pray remain calm, my love, you are not guilty toward me. I have already forgiven you.”
“What next, what next?”
“De Vardes cannot boast of anything.”
“Why? You yourself told me that the ring—”
“That ring, my love, I have it. The Comte de Vardes of last Thursday night and the D’Artagnan of last night are one and the same person.”
The rash young man expected Milady to display a certain surprise, mingled with shame, creating a minor tempest which would resolve itself into a flood of tears. But he was completely mistaken, nor did he have long to wait before he realized his error.
Pale and trembling, Milady sat bolt upright, repulsed of D’Artagnan’s attempted embrace with a violent push, and sprang out of bed. It was almost broad daylight. D’Artagnan held her back by her fine India-linen nightdress, imploring her pardon; but with a powerful jerk, she strove to shake herself free. This movement tore the cambric at the neck of her gown, exposing her beautiful, white, exquisitely rounded shoulders. On one of these shoulders D’Artagnan was inexpressibly shocked to see the fleur-de-lis, that indelible flower branded upon criminals by the degrading iron of the royal executioner.
“O God!” D’Artagnan gasped, loosing his hold of her nightgown and falling back on the bed, mute, motionless and frozen. In the look of terror that swept over his face, Milady read her own denunciation. He had seen the worst, he now possessed her secret, that terrible secret she had concealed from all save him. She turned upon him, no longer a furious woman now, but a wounded panther in all its savage lust.
“Ah, wretch, you have betrayed me! You know my secret! You shall die for it.” Darting across the room to an inlaid casket on her dressing table, she flung it open with feverish, trembling hand, seized a small dagger with a golden handle and sharp, thin blade, and wheeling round again, threw herself with one bound upon the half-naked D’Artagnan.
Now D’Artagnan was a brave man, as his deeds proved. But he was aghast at her distorted features, her horribly dilated pupils, her livid cheeks and her bleeding red lips. He recoiled toward the space between bed and wall as he would have done before the onset of a serpent crawling toward him. As he moved back, his sword came into contact with his cold, clammy hand; nervously, almost unconsciously, he drew it. Milady, undaunted by the naked blade, tried to climb on to the bed in order to get near enough to stab him; nor did she cease her efforts until she felt the sharp point of his sword at her throat. Then she attempted to seize the blade with her hands, but D’Artagnan kept it free from her grasp, now holding it leveled at her eyes, now at her breast. This manoeuvre enabled him to glide behind the bed, whence he hoped to retreat through the door leading to Kitty’s apartment.
Meanwhile Milady continued to rush at him, striking with relentless fury and shrieking like a madwoman. All this was not unlike a duel, so presently D’Artagnan came to his senses and step by step, assumed command of the situation.
“Well, well, beautiful lady!” he taunted her. “For Heaven’s sake calm yourself or I shall have to engrave a second fleur-de-lis on one of your lovely cheeks!”
“You wretch! You beast!”
Very gradually D’Artagnan worked his way toward the door ever on the defensive. At the uproar they made, Milady overturning the furniture in her efforts to reach him, D’Artagnan moving it to barricade himself against her, Kitty opened the door. By now D’Artagnan had edged his way to within three feet of it. With one spring, he was in Kitty’s room and quick as lightning, he had slammed the door upon Milady. As he leaned against it with all his weight, Kitty promptly shot the bolts and locked it.
With a strength and violence far beyond those of a normal woman, Milady attempted to tear down the doorcase but, finding this impossible, she kept stabbing frenetically at the door as, time after time, the thin blade of her dagger pierced through the woodwork.