The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [270]
Milady perceived his disquiet. Intuitively she felt the flame of the opposing passions which set the young zealot’s blood afire. Like a skilful strategist who, seeing his enemy about to fly, marches toward him with a cry of victory, she rose, superb as an ancient priestess, inspired as a Christian virgin, her arms raised, her throat uncovered, her hair disheveled. With one hand she held her gown modestly drawn over her high, firm breasts, and, her look blazing with the fervor which had already raised such havoc in the young man’s heart, she stepped forward and raised her usually low, melodious voice to a pitch of prophetic frenzy, singing:
To Baal doom the innocent,
To beasts their martyr prey,
Our God shall force thee to repent
Who saveth His alway.
Felton stood listening to this strange invocation, like one petrified. Then, trembling:
“Who are you?” he asked, clasping his hands. “Are you a messenger from God or a minister from Hell? Are you angel or demon? Are you Eloah or Astarte?”
“Don’t you know me, Felton? I am neither angel nor demon, I am a daughter of earth, I am your sister in the true faith, that is all.”
“Yes, I doubted, but now I believe!”
“You believe, yet you suffer me to languish in the hands of that child of Belial whom men call Lord Winter? You believe, yet you deliver me to that villain who fills and defiles the world with his heresies and debaucheries, to that infamous Sardanapalus whom the blind call Duke of Buckingham but whom true believers call Antichrist!”
“I deliver you up to Buckingham? What can you possibly mean?”
“Having eyes, see ye not?” Milady quoted. “Having ears, hear ye not?”
“Yes, it is true,” Felton exclaimed, passing his hand over his perspiring brow as if to remove his last doubt. “Yes, I recognize the voice which speaks to me in my dreams . . . I recognize the features of the angel that appears to me every night . . . I recognize that spirit which says to my sleepless soul: ‘Arise, strike! Save England and save thyself else thou shalt die without having satisfied thy God. . . .’” Felton drew a deep breath and: “Speak, speak,” he begged Milady, “I understand you now.”
A flash of unholy joy, swifter than thought, gleamed in Milady’s eyes. Fleeting though it was, Felton saw it and started back, aghast, as though its light had illuminated the dark abysses of this woman’s heart. Suddenly he recalled Lord Winter’s warnings, the seductions of Milady and her first attempts on her arrival. He stepped back, hanging his head, but still looking at her as if, fascinated by this strange creature, he could not remove his eyes from hers.
Milady was not a woman to misunderstand this hesitation. Under her apparent emotions, her icy coolness never abandoned her. Before Felton had a chance to reply and before she should be forced to resume a conversation so difficult to sustain in the same exalted tones, she let her hands fall helplessly to her side. It was as if the weakness of the woman could not live up to the enthusiasm of the inspired fanatic:
“But no! I am not strong enough to be the Judith to deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the Eternal is too heavy for my arm. Let me die, then, to avoid dishonor; let me take refuge in martyrdom. I do not ask you for liberty as a guilty woman would nor for vengeance as a pagan would. Let me die, that is all I beg and implore you on bended knee; let me die, and my last sign shall be a blessing upon you for saving my soul!”
Hearing that voice (so gentle and suppliant!) and seeing that look (so timid and downcast!) Felton reproached himself for his hesitation. Step by step, the enchantress had resumed that magic adornment which she donned or doffed at will, that adornment of beauty, meekness and tears, and that irresistible attraction of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring of all.
“Alas, there is but one thing I can do, namely, to pity you if you prove to me you are a victim. Lord Winter has brought up cruel charges against you. You are