The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [295]
“I’m expecting him himself.”
“Himself? D’Artagnan here?”
“Himself.”
“But that’s impossible! He’s at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. He won’t come back to Paris until the city is taken.”
“So you think, but is anything impossible for my d’Artagnan, that noble and loyal gentleman?”
“Oh, I can’t believe you!”
“Well, then read this!” said the unfortunate young woman, in the excess of her pride and her joy, handing Milady a letter.
“Mme de Chevreuse’s handwriting!” Milady said to herself. “Ah, I was quite sure they had intelligence from that quarter!”
And she avidly read the following few lines:
My dear child,
Keep yourself ready. Our friend will see you soon, and he will see you only to wrest you from the prison where your safety demanded that you be hidden. So prepare yourself for departure and never despair of us.
Our charming Gascon has just shown himself as brave and faithful as ever. Tell him they are quite grateful to him somewhere for the warning he gave.
“Yes, yes,” said Milady, “yes, the letter is precise. Do you know what the warning was?”
“No. I only suspect that he informed the queen of some new machination of the cardinal’s.”
“Yes, that’s undoubtedly it!” said Milady, handing the letter back to Mme Bonacieux and bowing her pensive head again.
At that moment they heard the galloping of a horse.
“Oh!” cried Mme Bonacieux, rushing to the window. “Can it be he already?”
Milady stayed in bed, petrified by the surprise. So many unexpected things had happened to her all at once that, for the first time, her head failed her.
“Is it he?” she murmured. “Can it be he?”
And she remained in bed, her eyes staring.
“Alas, no!” said Mme Bonacieux, “it’s some man I don’t know, and yet he seems to be coming here. Yes, he’s slowing down, he’s stopping at the gate, he’s ringing.”
Milady jumped out of bed.
“You’re quite sure it’s not he?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, quite sure!”
“Maybe you didn’t see clearly?”
“Oh, I’d recognize him just by the feather in his hat or the tip of his cloak!”
Milady was still dressing.
“Never mind! The man is coming here, you say?”
“Yes, he has come in.”
“It’s either for you or for me.”
“Oh, my God, how agitated you seem!”
“Yes, I admit, I don’t have your confidence. I fear everything from the cardinal.”
“Hush!” said Mme Bonacieux, “someone’s coming!”
Indeed, the door opened, and the mother superior came in.
“Is it you who came from Boulogne?” she asked Milady.
“Yes, it is I,” the latter replied, trying to recover her coolheadedness. “Who is asking for me?”
“A man who does not want to give his name, but who comes on the part of the cardinal.”
“And who wants to speak with me?” asked Milady.
“Who wants to speak with a lady coming from Boulogne.”
“Please show him in, then, Madame.”
“Oh, my God! my God!” cried Mme Bonacieux, “can it be some sort of bad news?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I will leave you with this stranger, but as soon as he goes, if you will permit me, I will come back.”
“Oh, please do, of course!”
The mother superior and Mme Bonacieux left.
Milady remained alone, her eyes fixed on the door. A moment later, the jingling of spurs came from the stairway, then footsteps approached, then the door opened, and a man appeared.
Milady let out a cry of joy: the man was the comte de Rochefort, His Eminence’s tool.
LXII
TWO SORTS OF DEMONS
“Ah!” Rochefort and Milady cried out together, “it’s you!”
“Yes, it’s I.”
“And you’re coming?…” asked Milady.
“From La Rochelle, and you?”
“From England.”
“Buckingham?”
“Dead, or dangerously wounded. As I was leaving without having been able to get anything from him, a fanatic had just assassinated him.”
“Ah!” said Rochefort with a smile, “there’s a lucky chance for you! And one that will greatly please His Eminence! Have you informed him?”
“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”
“His Eminence was worried and sent me to look for you.”
“I arrived only yesterday.”