The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [268]
“Would you prefer to be hanged under your own name, My Lady? As you know, here in England our law is inexorable on the chapter of marriage. Speak out and tell me what you want. Though my name, or rather my brother’s name, were to suffer for it I am determined to hazard the scandal of a public trial in order to be certain that I shall be rid of you once and for all.”
Milady, pale as a corpse, made no answer. There was a silence.
“Well, well,” Lord Winter went on, “I must conclude you prefer to prolong your peregrinations. So much the better, Madame. You know the old saw: ‘A-travel I would go. . . .’ Upon my word you are not wrong; life is very sweet. That is why I do not intend to forfeit mine at your hands.”
Milady stared at him but said nothing.
“The only thing that remains to be settled is your allowance of five shillings. You consider me somewhat parsimonious, do you not? The reason is that I do not care to furnish you with the means of corrupting your jailers. Anyhow, you will always have your charms left with which to seduce them. Employ them then if your failure with Felton has not disgusted you at attempts of the sort.”
“Felton has not told him,” Milady mused. “Nothing is lost, then.”
“And now, My Lady, au revoir until we meet again tomorrow when I shall call on you to announce the departure of my messenger.”
Lord Winter rose, bowed ironically to her and left.
Milady breathed again: she still had four days before her and four days would suffice to complete the seduction of Felton. But suddenly a terrifying thought flashed through her mind. Suppose Lord Winter were to send Felton himself to get the order signed by the Duke of Buckingham? In that case Felton would escape her, since the accomplishment of her plan depended on the magic of a continuous fascination. Still there was one reassuring aspect to her plight: Felton had not spoken.
Determined not to appear unnerved by Lord Winter’s threats, she sat down at the table and ate her dinner. Then she fell to her knees as she had done the evening before and said her prayers aloud. Once again the soldier stopped pacing up and down the corridor to listen to her. Presently she heard footsteps lighter than those of the sentinel; someone was coming toward her cell. As the steps stopped before her door:
“It is Felton, it is he!” she said and began singing the hymn which had excited Felton so violently the previous evening. But though her voice—a sweet, full sonorous voice—rang quite as melodically and pathetically as ever, the door remained shut. To be sure, in one of the furtive glances she darted from time to time at the grating of the door, she thought she detected the ardent eyes of the young man through the serried wires.
Whether this was true or whether she imagined it, this time at least Felton mustered sufficient self-control not to enter. And yet a few moments later Milady fancied she heard a deep sigh. Then the same steps she had heard approach now withdrew slowly and as though regretfully.
LV
CAPTIVITY: THE FOURTH DAY
Next day when Felton entered Milady’s apartment he found her standing on a chair, holding in her hands a kind of rope. Apparently she had made it by tearing some cambric handkerchiefs into strips, twining the strips one with another and tying them end to end. At the noise Felton made in entering, Milady jumped lightly to the ground from her armchair, sat down in it and tried to conceal this improvised cord by dropping it behind her.
The young man was even paler than usual and his eyes, reddened by want of sleep, proved that he had spent a feverish night. His expression was more austere and stern than ever. He advanced slowly and taking one end of the suicidal rope, which by mistake or design she had allowed to appear:
“What is this, Madame?” he inquired coldly.
“That?” Milady smiled with that expression of appealing melancholy which she assumed so skilfully. “Boredom is the mortal enemy of prisoners. I was listless so I amused myself twining this