The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [261]
On the morrow when the orderly entered she was still abed. Felton stood in the doorway and ushered in the woman who was to wait on Milady.
“May I help Your Ladyship?” the crone asked, approaching the bed.
“No, I am feverish. I have not slept all night. I am in terrible pain. Pray be kinder than the others were yesterday and leave me to myself.”
“Shall I fetch a physician, Ma’am?”
Felton, speechless, watched and listened. He noted that Milady, naturally fair of complexion, was now paler than wax. For her part Milady realized that the more people she had about her the more people she would have to cope with. Besides Lord Winter would increase his vigilance. And the physician might well declare her illness feigned. Having lost the first round in this bout, Milady was determined to win the second.
“Fetch a physician?” said she. “What good would that do? Yesterday these gentlemen declared that my illness was a comedy; today it would be the same. It is somewhat late to be sending for a doctor!”
“Will you kindly tell us yourself, Madame, what treatment you would wish to follow?” Felton interrupted with some impatience.
“Ah, God, how do I know! I know that I am suffering, that is all. Give me what you will, I do not care.”
“Send for Lord Winter,” said Felton, wearied by these everlasting complaints.
“Oh, no, no! please do not call him, I beseech you. I am well, I want nothing!”
Milady uttered this plea with such vehemence and such burning eloquence that Felton, attracted despite himself, took a few steps into the room.
He has come in, Milady thought.
“Madame, if you really are in pain, I shall have a doctor sent for. If you are deceiving us, so much the worse for you. Thus we shall have no reason to reproach ourselves.”
For her only reply Milady buried her beautiful head in the pillow and sobbed bitterly. Felton gazed at her for a moment with his usual impassivity. Then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be a long one, he went out, the servant following him. Lord Winter did not appear.
“I fancy I am beginning to see my way,” Milady mused with savage joy, drawing the bedclothes over her face to conceal her satisfaction from anyone who might be spying on her.
Two hours later she decided it was time for her illness to cease. She would get up and contrive somehow to gain an advantage of some sort. She had only ten days in all; two were already gone. Earlier the orderly had brought her breakfast; surely someone would be coming shortly to remove the table. And surely Felton would appear too.
She was not mistaken. Felton returned, and without noticing whether Milady had touched the food or not, motioned to the orderly to carry away the table. He stood by the doorway, alone, still silent, a book in his hand.
Milady, deep in a chair beside the fireplace, a picture of beauty, pallor and resignation, looked for all the world like a saintly virgin awaiting martyrdom. Felton approached her and said:
“Lord Winter, a Roman Catholic like yourself, believes that you might suffer at being deprived of the rites and ceremonies of your faith. He sends you this book so you may read the ordinary of your mass every day. Here it is!”
At the manner in which Felton placed the book on the little table near which Milady sat, at the tone in which he said your faith and your mass, and at the disdainful smile which accompanied them, Milady concentrated her attention on him. Then, noting the plain, severe arrangement of his hair, the exaggerated simplicity of his dress and the marmorean polish, hardness and impassivity of his brow, she recognized him for one of those somber Puritans whom she had so often met both at the Court of King James and at that of the King of France, where despite memories of the massacre of Saint Bartholomew’s Day, they sometimes sought refuge.
A sudden inspiration swept through her mind,