The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [278]
And at these words, as if all her strength was exhausted, Milady let herself fall, weak and languishing, into the arms of the young officer, who, drunk with love, with anger, and with unknown delights, caught her rapturously and pressed her to his heart, all ashiver at the breath of that beautiful mouth, all frantic at the contact of that throbbing breast.
“No, no,” he said, “no, you shall live honored and pure, you shall live to triumph over your enemies.”
Milady slowly pushed him away with her hand, while drawing him to her with her gaze; but Felton, in his turn, seized hold of her, imploring her like a divinity.
“Oh, death, death!” she said, lowering her voice and her eyelids. “Oh, death rather than shame! Felton, my brother, my friend, I beseech you!”
“No,” cried Felton, “no, you shall live, and you shall be avenged!”
“Felton, I bring misfortune to everything around me! Felton, abandon me! Felton, let me die!”
“Well, then we shall die together!” he cried, pressing his lips to those of his prisoner.
There was a loud knocking on the door. This time Milady really pushed him away.
“Listen,” she said, “we’ve been overheard; they’re coming! That’s it, we’re lost!”
“No,” said Felton, “it’s only the sentry letting me know that a patrol is coming.”
“Run to the door, then, and open it yourself.”
Felton obeyed: this woman was already all his thought, all his soul.
He found himself face to face with a sergeant commanding a patrol of the watch.
“Well, what is it?” asked the young officer.
“You told me to open the door if I heard a cry for help,” said the sentry, “but you forgot to give me the key. I heard you cry out, though I did not understand what you said. I went to open the door, it was locked from inside, and so I sent for the sergeant.”
“And here I am,” said the sergeant.
Felton, bewildered, nearly mad, was left speechless.
Milady realized that it was for her to take over the situation. She ran to the table and took the knife that Felton had set down there.
“And by what right do you wish to keep me from dying?” she said.
“Good God!” cried Felton, seeing the knife gleaming in her hand.
At that moment, a burst of ironic laughter echoed in the corridor.
The baron, attracted by the noise, in his dressing gown, his sword under his arm, was standing in the doorway.
“Aha!” he said, “now we’ve come to the last act of the tragedy. You see, Felton, the drama has followed all the phases I indicated. But don’t worry, no blood will flow.”
Milady realized that she was lost if she did not give Felton an immediate and terrible proof of her courage.
“You’re mistaken, Milord, blood will flow, and may this blood fall back upon those who made it flow!”
Felton cried out and rushed to her. It was too late: Milady had stabbed herself.
But the knife had fortunately, or we ought to say skillfully, encountered the metal busk which in those days protected ladies’ bosoms like a cuirass. It had glanced off, tearing her dress, and had penetrated at an angle between the flesh and the ribs.
Milady’s dress was nevertheless stained with blood in a second.
Milady fell backwards and seemed to faint.
Felton snatched the knife away.
“You see, Milord,” he said with a gloomy air, “here is a woman who was under my guard, and she has killed herself!”
“Don’t worry, Felton,” said Lord de Winter, “she’s not dead. Demons don’t die so easily. Don’t worry. Go and wait for me in my room.”
“But, Milord…”
“Go, I order you.”
At this command from his superior, Felton obeyed; but as he left, he slipped the knife into his shirt front.
As for Lord de Winter, he contented himself with sending for the woman who served Milady.