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“He’s moved,” thought Milady.

“However, Madame,” said Felton, “if you are really suffering, we will send for a doctor, but if you are deceiving us, well, then it will be too bad for you, but at least on our side we will have nothing to reproach ourselves for.”

Milady made no response, but, throwing her head back on the pillow, dissolved in tears and burst into sobs.

Felton looked at her for a moment with his usual impassivity; then, seeing that the crisis threatened to be prolonged, he left. The woman followed him out. Lord de Winter did not appear.

“I think I’m beginning to see my way,” Milady murmured with a savage joy, burying herself under the covers to hide this fit of inner satisfaction from anyone who might be watching.

Two hours went by.

“Now it’s time the illness ended,” she said. “Let’s get up and achieve some success starting today. I only have ten days, and as of tonight two will have gone by.”

On coming into Milady’s room that morning, they had brought her breakfast. So she thought that it would not be long before they came to clear the table, and that she would then see Felton again.

Milady was not mistaken. Felton reappeared, and, without paying attention to whether Milady had touched her meal or not, made a sign for the table, which was usually brought already set, to be taken out of the room.

Felton was the last to leave. He was holding a book in his hand.

Milady, reclining in an armchair near the fireplace, beautiful, pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.

Felton went over to her and said:

“Lord de Winter, who is a Catholic like you, Madame, thought that being deprived of the rites and ceremonies of your religion might be painful for you. He consents, therefore, to let you read the order of your mass each day, and here is a book containing the ritual.”

The air with which Felton placed this book on the little table beside Milady, the tone with which he pronounced the words “your mass,” the scornful smile with which he accompanied them, made Milady raise her head and look at the officer more attentively.

Then, by the severe cut of his hair, the exaggerated simplicity of his dress, his forehead polished like marble, but also of a marblelike hardness and impenetrability, she recognized him as one of those gloomy Puritans that she had so often met in the court of King James as well as of the king of France, where, despite the memory of Saint Bartholomew, they sometimes came seeking refuge.

She then had one of those sudden inspirations such as only people of genius receive in great crises, in those supreme moments which are to decide their fortune or their life.

Those two words, “your mass,” and a simple glance at Felton, had indeed revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was about to make.

But with that quickness of intelligence which was peculiar to her, the fully formulated reply came to her lips:

“Mine?” she said, with an accent of scorn brought into unison with that which she had noticed in the young officer’s voice. “My mass, Monsieur? Lord de Winter, that depraved Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a trap he means to set for me!”

“And of what religion are you then, Madame?” asked Felton, with an astonishment which, in spite of his self-control, he could not conceal entirely.

“I will say,” cried Milady, with feigned exaltation, “on the day when I have suffered enough for my faith.”

Felton’s look revealed to Milady the whole extent of the space she had just opened up by this one phrase.

However, the young officer remained mute and immobile; his look alone had spoken.

“I am in the hands of my enemies,” she went on, with that tone of enthusiasm she knew was habitual to Puritans. “Well, then, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I ask you to give to Lord de Winter. And as for this book,” she added, pointing to the missal with the tip of her finger, but without touching it, as if she would have been soiled by