The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [257]
Meanwhile she is not too unhappy. What she most craves is a letter from her swain. Such communications are difficult to pass through convent gratings but, if I can go, I will undertake the task. As you know I have not proved unskilful in the past. So much for that.
As for my sister, she thanks you for your loyal and enduring remembrance. For a while she experienced considerable distress but now she is somewhat reassured, for, to forestall any untoward circumstances, she has dispatched her secretary to the place you know.
Adieu, fair cousin. Let us hear from you as often as you can—I mean as often as you can safely.
I embrace you
Marie Michon”
“How much I owe you, Aramis!” D’Artagnan sighed. “Thanks to you I have news of my beloved Constance after all these weeks. She is alive; she is safe in a convent; she is at Stenay. Where is Stenay, Athos?”
“Stenay is in Lorraine, a few leagues from the Alsatian border,” Athos replied. “The siege done, we can take a turn in that direction.”
“It won’t be long now, let us hope,” Porthos put in. “This very morning they hanged a spy who had confessed that the men of La Rochelle were down to shoe leather. The leather eaten, suppose they eat up the soles, I can’t see what they can do after that but eat one another.”
Athos drained a glass of excellent Bordeaux, a wine which, without enjoying the reputation it does today, deserved it nevertheless: “Poor fools!” he said. “As though the Roman Catholic faith were not the most profitable and agreeable of religions!”
Smacking his tongue against his palate in appreciation of the wine: “No matter, they are gallant men!” he went on. Then, turning on Aramis: “What the devil are you about?” he asked. “Why are you cramming that letter into your pocket?”
“Well, I—”
“Athos is right,” D’Artagnan broke in. “We must burn that letter. And even if we do we must pray that His Eminence does not collect the ashes and read them by some process of his own.”
“I am certain he has some such process,” Athos agreed.
“Grimaud, front and centre!” Athos commanded. And, as the lackey stepped forward: “My friend, contrary to all orders, you spoke without permission. For punishment, you shall please eat this paper. And in reward for the great service you did us, you shall wash it down with a glass of wine. Here is the paper; chew it up carefully!” Grimaud smiled. His eyes fixed on the glass Athos held up, he ground the paper between his teeth, rolled it up in his mouth, and, moistening it with all the saliva he could muster, swallowed it effortlessly.
“Bravo, Grimaud, here you are! Bottoms up and don’t bother to thank me.”
Grimaud sipped the glass silently but throughout this occupation his eyes, raised heavenward, spoke a language the more expressive for being mute.
“And now,” said Athos, “unless Monsieur le Cardinal should be inspired to dissect Grimaud, I think we may feel pretty safe about the letter.”
Meanwhile His Eminence was pursuing his dull, melancholy ride back to camp, murmuring between his mustaches:
“Come what may, I must win those four men over to my cause.”
LII
CAPTIVITY: THE FIRST DAY
While all this was going on in France, Milady, across the Channel was still a prey to complete dispair. Plunged in an abyss of dismal meditation, a dark hell at whose gate she had almost abandoned all hope, for the first time in her life she experienced doubt and fear.
Twice before, luck had deserted her; twice before, she had been exposed and betrayed and twice before, she had fallen the victim to the same fatal genius whom God must have appointed to be her undoing. D’Artagnan had conquered her despite her apparently invincible force for evil.
He had deceived her in love, humbled her in her pride, thwarted her of her ambition; now he was ruining her fortunes, depriving her of liberty and threatening her very life. Worse still, he had partly raised her mask; he had thrust aside the shield which was at once her protection and her strength.
D’Artagnan had diverted from Buckingham (whom she hated as she hated all those she had loved) the threat Richelieu