The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [261]
And yet, despite all that seductiveness, Milady might fail, for Felton had been forewarned, and that against the slightest risk. Henceforth, she kept watch over her every action, her every word, down to the simplest look in her eyes, the merest gesture, even her very breathing, which might be interpreted as a sigh. Finally, she studied everything, as a skillful actor does when he has just been given a new role in a line he was not used to taking.
With regard to Lord de Winter, her conduct was easier, and so she had settled on it since the previous evening. To remain silent and dignified in his presence, to irritate him from time to time by an affected disdain, by a contemptuous word, to push him to threats and violence that would contrast with her own resignation—such was her plan. Felton would see: he might not say anything, but he would see.
In the morning, Felton came as usual, but Milady allowed him to preside over all the breakfast preparations without saying a word to him. Then, just as he was about to withdraw, she had a glimmer of hope, for she thought it was he who was about to speak. But his lips moved without any sound coming from his mouth, and, struggling with himself, he locked up in his heart the words that were about to escape his lips, and left.
Towards noon, Lord de Winter came in.
It was a rather fine winter day, and a ray of that pale English sun, which gives light but no warmth, came through the bars of the prison.
Milady was looking out the window, and made as if she did not hear the door opening.
“Aha!” said Lord de Winter, “having done comedy, having done tragedy, now we’re doing melancholy.”
The prisoner did not respond.
“Yes, yes,” Lord de Winter went on, “I understand. You’d like very much to be free on that shore; you’d like to be on a good ship, cleaving the waves of that emerald-green sea; you’d like very much, whether on land or on sea, to set me up one of those nice little ambushes that you know so well how to arrange. Patience! Patience! In four days, the shore will be permitted you, the sea will be open to you, more open than you’d like, for in four days England will be rid of you.”
Milady clasped her hands, and raising her beautiful eyes to heaven, said with an angelic sweetness of gesture and intonation:
“Lord! Lord! Forgive this man as I forgive him myself.”
“Yes, pray, accursed woman!” cried the baron. “Your prayer is all the more generous in that you are, I swear to you, in the power of a man who will not forgive.”
And he left.
Just as he was leaving, a piercing glance slipped through the half-open door, and she glimpsed Felton stepping aside quickly so as not to be seen by her.
Then she threw herself on her knees and began to pray.
“My God! my God!” she said, “you know for what holy cause I suffer! Give me, then, the strength to suffer.”
The door opened softly. The beautiful suppliant made as if she had not heard, and in a tearful voice, went on:
“God of vengeance! God of goodness! Will you allow this man’s ghastly plans to be accomplished?”
Only then did she pretend to hear the sound of Felton’s footsteps, and, getting up quick as thought, she blushed as if she was ashamed to have been caught on her knees.
“I do not like to disturb those who pray, Madame,” Felton said gravely. “And therefore, I entreat you, do not be disturbed on my account.”
“How do you know I was praying? Monsieur,” said Milady, in a voice choking with sobs, “you are mistaken, Monsieur, I was not praying.”
“Do you think, then, Madame,” Felton replied in the same grave voice, though with a gentler accent, “that I believe I have the right to hinder a creature who is bowing down before her Creator? God forbid! Besides, repentance sits well on the guilty. Whatever the crime committed, a guilty person at the feet of God is sacred to me.”
“Guilty? I?” said Milady, with a smile that would have disarmed an angel