The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [282]
“And then—?”
“Then Buckingham must somehow or other have learned of my return. He spoke of me to Lord Winter who was already prejudiced against me, describing me as a prostitute and a branded woman. The pure, noble voice of my husband was not there to defend me. Lord Winter believed everything Buckingham told him, the more readily since it was to his interest to do so. He caused me to be arrested, conveyed me here and put me under your guard. The rest you know: the day after tomorrow, he is having me banished and deported, the day after tomorrow he is relegating me to the criminal classes. Ah, the web of treachery is shrewdly spun, I tell you! the plot is skilful! How can my honor avail against it? No, Felton, I must die; there is no other solution! Give me that knife!”
With these words, as though all her strength were exhausted, Milady sank back, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer. Mad with love, trembling with anger and swayed by strange new sensations, sensual and voluptuous, Felton pressed her against his heart, shuddering as he felt the breath from her red passionate mouth fanning his cheek and distracted by the contact of her firm throbbing breasts against his chest.
“No, no,” he vowed, “you shall live honored and pure, to triumph over your enemies.”
Milady put him away from her slowly with her hand, drawing him nearer the while with her glance. Felton, in turn, advanced to embrace her, his arms clasped close about her, imploring her as he might a goddess.
“O death, death!” she whispered, lowering her voice, her eyes half-closed. “Death rather than shame. Felton, my friend, my brother, have mercy upon me!”
“No, you shall live and you shall live avenged!”
“Alas, Felton, I bring disaster to all who come near me! Leave me, abandon me to my fate, let me die—”
“Well, then, we shall die together!” he cried, pressing his lips to hers.
There was a knocking at the door; this time Milady pushed him away in earnest.
“Listen! We are caught! People are coming. All is over; this is the end!”
Felton assured her that it was only the sentinel warning him that they were about to change guard.
“Then run to the door and open it yourself.”
Felton obeyed like a child, for her merest orders were now his every thought, his entire soul. In the doorway stood a soldier and, a few paces away, a sergeant commanding a watch patrol.
“Well, what is it, man?” the young lieutenant asked.
“You told me to open the door if I heard anyone cry out, sir,” the soldier replied. “But you forgot to leave me the key. I heard you cry out but I could not make out what you were saying. I tried to open the door but it was locked on the inside. So I called for the sergeant of the guard.”
“And here I am, Lieutenant,” the sergeant spoke up.
Felton, bewildered, almost crazed, stood quite speechless. Milady perceived instantly it was for her to cope with the situation. Running to the table, she seized the knife Felton had laid down.
“By what right will you prevent me from dying?” she cried theatrically.
“Great God!” Felton gasped as he saw the knife glittering in her hand.
An ironical burst of laughter resounded through the corridor. Lord Winter, attracted by the noise, stood in the doorway, clad in a dressing-gown:
“Well, well, well,” he said, “so this is the last act of the tragedy, eh? You see, Felton, the drama has followed all the phases I cited. But do not worry, no blood will flow.”
Milady knew that all was lost if she did not give Felton an immediate and terrible proof of her courage.
“You are mistaken, My Lord,” she said evenly. “Blood will flow and may it fall back on those who cause bloodshed.”
With a cry, Felton rushed toward her, but he was too late; Milady had already stabbed herself.
As luck—or better, as Milady’s skilled hand—would have it, the blade struck the iron busk of Milady’s corset, glanced down, ripped her gown and penetrated obliquely between her flesh and ribs. Her robe was nevertheless