The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [259]
“Put the table there,” said a voice which she recognized as Felton’s. “Bring lights in and relieve the sentinel.”
This double order given to the same men convinced Milady that her servants were her guards too, in other words soldiers. Felton’s orders were executed with a silent rapidity that spoke worlds for the discipline he maintained. At last Felton, who had not yet looked at Milady, turned toward her, “Ah!” he said, “she is asleep. When she wakes up she can sup!” And he took several steps toward the door.
“No, Lieutenant,” said a soldier who, less stoical than his chief, had approached Milady, “this woman is not asleep.”
“What, not asleep? What is she doing, then?”
“She has fainted. She is deathly pale. I listened closely but I cannot hear her breathe.”
“You’re right,” said Felton, after examining Milady without moving from the spot where he stood. “Go tell Lord Winter that his prisoner has fainted. Personally I do not know what to do. We had not foreseen this.”
As the soldier moved away to carry out Felton’s orders, Felton sat down on an armchair close to the door and waited, wordless and motionless.
Milady possessed one great art which women cultivate assiduously, that of looking through her long eyelashes without appearing to open her eyelids. She watched Felton, who sat with his back to her, steadily for almost ten minutes. During all this time, he never once turned around.
She realized that Lord Winter would be coming in shortly and that his presence would strengthen Felton’s indifference. Her first attempt had failed. Acting like a woman who exploits all her resources, she raised her head, opened her eyes and uttered a helpless sigh. Felton wheeled around:
“Ah, you are awake, Madame,” he said, “then I have nothing more to do here. If you want anything, you can ring!”
“Ah God, my God, how I have suffered!” Milady moaned in that melodious voice which like those of the enchantress of old, charmed all whom they wished to destroy. And, sitting up in her armchair, she assumed a still more graceful and abandoned position than when she had reclined. Felton rose to his feet.
“You will be served three times a day, Madame: breakfast at nine, dinner at one, supper at eight. If that does not suit you you may tell us what hours you prefer and we will comply with your wishes.”
“But am I to remain always alone in this huge dismal room?”
“A woman of the neighborhood has been sent for. She will come to the castle tomorrow and will return whenever you desire her presence.”
“I thank you, sir,” replied the prisoner humbly.
Felton made a slight bow and started toward the door. As he was about to clear the threshold, Lord Winter appeared in the corridor, followed by the soldier sent to apprise him of Milady’s swoon. He held a vial of smelling salts in his hand.
“Well, what is this? What on earth is going on here?” he jeered, as he saw his prisoner sitting up and Felton about to leave the room. “Has this corpse come to life already? Tut, tut, Felton my lad, can’t you see that she takes you for a greenhorn? This is but Act One of a comedy which we shall doubtless have the pleasure of applauding as the plot unfolds!”
“I thought so, My Lord, but after all the prisoner is a lady. I wished to pay her all the attention that a gentleman owes a lady, if not on her account, at least on my own.”
Milady shuddered from head to toe as Felton’s matter-of-fact words passed like ice through her veins.
Lord Winter laughed.
“Behold the beautiful hair so artfully disheveled, that white skin and that languishing glance! So they have not seduced you yet, O heart of stone!”
“No, My Lord,” the phlegmatic youth answered. “Believe me, it requires more than the tricks and coquetry of a woman to corrupt me.”
“In that case my gallant lieutenant, let us leave Milady to invent something else