The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [265]
Only a few moments after she finished her religious singing, Milady thought she heard a deep sigh; then the same footsteps she had heard approaching went away slowly and as if regretfully.
LV
FOURTH DAY OF CAPTIVITY
The next day, when Felton came into Milady’s room, he found her standing on a chair, holding in her hands a rope made from several batiste handkerchiefs torn into strips, braided together, and tied end to end. At the noise Felton made in opening the door, Milady jumped down lightly from her chair and tried to hide this improvised rope behind her.
The young man was still paler than usual, and his eyes, reddened by insomnia, showed that he had spent a feverish night.
Yet his brow was armed with a serenity more austere than ever.
He advanced slowly towards Milady, who had sat down, and taking hold of one end of the deadly braid, which, by inadvertence, or perhaps on purpose, she had left showing, asked coldly:
“What is this, Madame?”
“That? Nothing,” said Milady, smiling with that sorrowful expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile. “Boredom is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I’m bored, and I amused myself by braiding this rope.”
Felton shifted his eyes to the point on the apartment wall before which he had found Milady standing on the chair she was now sitting in, and above her head he noticed a gilded spike, fixed in the wall, which served for hanging either clothes or arms.
He gave a start, and the prisoner saw this start; for though her eyes were lowered, nothing escaped her.
“And what were you doing standing on that chair?” he asked.
“What is it to you?” replied Milady.
“But,” Felton picked up, “I want to know.”
“Do not question me,” said the prisoner. “You know very well that we true Christians are forbidden to lie.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “I shall tell you what you were doing, or rather what you were going to do. You were going to complete that fatal work which you are nurturing in your mind. Consider, Madame, if God forbids lying, how much more strictly he forbids suicide.”
“When God sees one of his creatures persecuted, placed between suicide and dishonor, believe me, Monsieur,” replied Milady, in a tone of deep conviction, “God forgives the suicide—for then suicide is martyrdom.”
“You say either too much or too little. Speak, Madame, in heaven’s name, explain yourself.”
“I should tell you my misfortunes, so that you may treat them as fables? I should tell you my plans, so that you may go and reveal them to my persecutor? No, Monsieur. Besides, what does the life or death of one wretched condemned woman mean to you? You answer only for my body, isn’t that so? And provided you can produce a corpse, and it is recognized as mine, nothing more will be asked of you, and perhaps you will even have twice the reward.”
“I, Madame? I?” cried Felton. “To suppose I would ever accept the price of your life? Oh, you’re not thinking what you’re saying!”
“Let me be, Felton, let me be,” said Milady, getting excited. “Every soldier must be ambitious, isn’t that so? You’re a lieutenant. Well, then you’ll follow my funeral procession with the rank of captain.”
“But what have I done to you,” said Felton, shaken, “that you heap me with such responsibility before men and God? In a few days you will be far away from here, Madame, your life will no longer be under my protection, and,” he added with a sigh, “then you can do with it what you like.”
“So,” cried Milady, as if she could not resist a sense of holy indignation, “you who are a pious man, you who are called a just man, you demand only one thing: not to be blamed or bothered for my death!”
“I must watch over your life, Madame, and I shall watch over it.”
“But do you understand the mission you are fulfilling? Cruel enough if I were guilty, what name will you give it, what name will the Lord give it, if I am innocent?”
“I am a soldier, Madame. I obey the orders I have received.”
“Do you believe that, on the day of the last judgment, God will separate the blind hangmen from the iniquitous judges? You do not