The Three Musketeers (The Modern Library) - Alexandre Dumas [299]
“Will you name some of them, Madame? I wonder if any of them are also friends of mine.”
“Well,” Milady said slowly, concealing her embarrassment, “I know Monsieur de Souvigny . . . Monsieur de Courtivron . . . Monsieur de Férussac . . .”
The novice watched her expectantly, then, seeing her stop, she asked:
“Do you happen to know a gentleman named Athos?” she inquired.
Milady turned white as the sheets in which she was lying. Mistress of her movements though she was, she could not help uttering a cry, seizing the young woman’s hand and staring deep into her eyes.
“What is the matter, Madame?” The novice was aghast. “Have I said anything to offend you?”
“No, child, but that name struck me! I know that gentleman and it seemed so strange to find someone else who knows him well.”
“Ay, Madame, I know him very well and I know his friends too: Monsieur Porthos and Monsieur Aramis.”
“I also know them,” Milady blurted, chilled to the marrow of her bones.
“Well, then, you must be aware what true and loyal men they are. Why not appeal to them if you need help?”
“To be quite accurate,” Milady stammered, “they are not really close friends. I know them chiefly through stories I have heard from one of their comrades, Monsieur d’Artagnan.”
“So you know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” the novice gasped as she, in turn, seized Milady’s hand and stared deep into her eyes. Then observing the extraordinary expression on Milady’s face:
“Forgive me for asking you, dear Madame, but what is D’Artagnan to you?”
“A friend . . . just a casual friend . . . yes, a friend. . . .”
“You are deceiving me, Madame, you have been his mistress.”
“It is you who have been his mistress,” Milady retorted.
“I, Madame—” the novice faltered.
“Yes, you. I know who you are now. You are Madame Bonacieux.” The young woman started back in surprise and terror. “Yes, you are Constance Bonacieux! Do you deny it?”
“No, Madame; I see you know who I am. But are we rivals?”
So savage and malign a joy blazed over Milady’s features that in any other circumstances, Madame Bonacieux would have fled in terror. But in this moment the poor young woman was consumed with jealousy. Summoning a vehemence of which she would have seemed incapable, she pleaded: “Tell me the truth, Madame, I can face it. Were you ever his mistress? Are you his mistress now?”
“Of course not!” Milady’s accents admitted of no doubt. “Of course not!”
“I believe you, Madame, but pray tell me why you were so upset when I—?”
Already Milady had overcome her agitation and with complete calm:
“Don’t you understand?” she demanded.
“Understand what, Madame? Pray tell me what you mean?”
“Don’t you understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan is my friend and that he has told me everything—”
“Everything?”
“Yes, child, I know all about how you were carried off from the cottage at Saint Cloud . . . how D’Artagnan was plunged in despair . . . how he marshaled his friends and how they searched for you in vain . . . how at this very moment they are worrying about you. . . . Monsieur d’Artagnan and I have spoken so often of you, he told me all the adoration he had for you and he made me love you long before I ever laid eyes on you. And so, now we meet! At last, my dear Constance, at long last we meet!”
With which, Milady stretched out her arms to Madame Bonacieux, who, convinced by her words, saw in Milady not the rival she had believed but a sincere, cordial and devoted friend.
“Forgive me, Madame, forgive me!” Constance, locked in Milady’s embrace, was weeping over her shoulder. “I was jealous. But I do love him so!”
For a moment the two women remained silent, their arms about each other as Madame Bonacieux wept softly. Had Milady’s strength equalled her hatred, she would have strangled her. Instead she smiled.
“What a poor, pretty, devoted creature you are!” she said unctuously. “And how happy I am to see you!” Unclasping her arms, she raised Madame Bonacieux to her feet and surveyed her as a beast of prey surveys its timid