The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [267]
Milady was not a woman to misunderstand the meaning of this hesitation. Beneath her apparent emotions, her icy cold-bloodedness never left her. Before Felton replied to her and forced her to resume this conversation which was so hard to maintain at the same pitch of exaltation, she let her hands fall, and, as if feminine weakness had won out over inspired enthusiasm, said:
“No, it is not for me to be the Judith who will deliver Bethulia from this Holofernes. The sword of the Eternal is too heavy for my arm. Let me then flee dishonor through death, let me take refuge in martyrdom. I ask you neither for freedom, as would a guilty person, nor for vengeance, as would a pagan. Let me die, that is all. I beg you, I implore you on my knees: let me die, and my last sigh will be a blessing on my savior.”
At this sweet and supplicating voice, at this timid and downcast look, Felton reproached himself. Little by little, the enchantress had put back on that magic adornment which she took off or on at will, that is to say, the beauty, the gentleness, the tears, and above all the irresistible attraction of mystical voluptuousness, the most devouring voluptuousness of all.
“Alas!” said Felton, “there is only one thing I can do—to pity you if you prove to me that you are a victim! But Lord de Winter has bitter grievances against you. You are a Christian, you are my sister in religion; I feel drawn to you, I who love only my benefactor, I who in life have found only traitors and impious men. But you, Madame, so beautiful in reality, so pure in appearance, for Lord de Winter to pursue you like this, you must have committed iniquities.”
“They have eyes,” repeated Milady, with an accent of unutterable sorrow, “and see not; they have ears, and hear not.”
“But, in that case,” cried the young officer, “speak, speak!”
“Confide my shame to you?” cried Milady, with the flush of modesty on her face, “for the crime of one is often the shame of another. Confide my shame to you—you a man, and I a woman? Oh!” she went on, modestly covering her beautiful eyes with her hand, “oh, never, never could I!”
“To me, to a brother!” cried Felton.
Milady looked at him for a long time with an expression which the young officer took for doubt, and which nevertheless was only observation and above all the will to fascinate.
“Well, then,” said Milady, “I will trust in my brother, I will dare!”
At that moment, they heard Lord de Winter’s footsteps. But this time Milady’s terrible brother-in-law did not content himself, as he had the evening before, with passing by the door and going away. He stopped, exchanged two words with the sentry, then the door opened, and he appeared.
During that two-word exchange, Felton had quickly backed away, and when Lord de Winter came in, he was several steps from the prisoner.
The baron came in slowly, and turned his searching gaze from the prisoner to the young officer.
“You’ve been here quite a long time, John,” he said. “Has this woman been recounting her crimes to you? If so, I can understand the length of the conversation.”
Felton shuddered, and Milady sensed that she was lost if she did not come to the aid of the abashed Puritan.
“Ah, you’re afraid your prisoner may escape you?” she said. “Well, then, ask your worthy jailer what favor I was begging of him just now.”
“You were asking a favor?” the suspicious baron inquired.
“Yes, Milord,” the confused young man picked up.
“And what favor, if you please?” asked Lord de Winter.
“A knife, which she would hand back to me through the peephole a minute after receiving it,” replied Felton.
“Is there someone hidden away here, then, whose throat the gracious lady wants to cut?” Lord de Winter asked in his mocking and contemptuous voice.
“Only myself,” replied Milady.
“I gave you a choice between America and Tyburn,” said Lord de Winter. “Choose Tyburn, Milady: the rope, believe me, is more certain than the knife.”
Felton turned pale and took a step forward, recalling that at the moment when he came in, Milady was holding a rope.
“You’re