The Three Musketeers (Translated by Richard Pevear) - Alexandre Dumas [314]
“What are you saying, Monsieur?” cried the astonished cardinal. “Of what woman are you speaking in this way?”
“Of Milady de Winter,” replied d’Artagnan. “Yes, of Milady de Winter, of whose many crimes Your Eminence was no doubt unaware when you honored her with your trust.”
“Monsieur,” said the cardinal, “if Milady de Winter has committed the crimes you say, she will be punished.”
“She has been, Monseigneur.”
“And who punished her?”
“We did.”
“She is in prison?”
“She is dead.”
“Dead?” repeated the cardinal, who could not believe his ears. “Dead? Did you say she was dead?”
“Three times she tried to kill me, and I forgave her. But she killed the woman I loved. Then my friends and I caught her, tried her, and condemned her.”
And D’Artagnan recounted the poisoning of Mme Bonacieux in the convent of the Carmelites in Béthune, the trial in the isolated house, the execution on the banks of the Lys.
A shudder ran through the cardinal’s body, though he did not shudder easily.
But all at once, as if under the influence of some mute thought, the cardinal’s physiognomy, sombre up to then, began to brighten little by little until it reached the most perfect serenity.
“And so,” he said, in a voice whose gentleness contrasted with the severity of his words, “you set yourselves up as judges, without considering that those who have no mission to punish and who punish anyway are murderers!”
“Monseigneur, I swear to you that I have never for a moment had the intention of defending my head against you. I will submit to the punishment that Your Eminence wishes to inflict on me. I am not so attached to life as to fear death.”
“Yes, I know, you are a man of courage, Monsieur,” said the cardinal, in an almost affectionate voice. “I can therefore tell you in advance that you will be tried, and even condemned.”
“Another might reply to Your Eminence that he has his pardon in his pocket. As for me, I will content myself with saying to you: give your order, Monseigneur, I am ready.”
“Your pardon?” Richelieu asked in surprise.
“Yes, Monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan.
“And signed by whom? By the king?”
And the cardinal uttered these words with a singular expression of contempt.
“No, by Your Eminence.”
“By me? Are you mad, Monsieur?”
“Monseigneur will undoubtedly recognize his own handwriting.”
And d’Artagnan presented to the cardinal the precious paper that Athos had wrested from Milady, and which he had given to d’Artagnan to serve him as a safeguard.
His Eminence took the paper and read in a slow voice, stressing each syllable:
It is by my orders and for the good of the State that the bearer of this present has done what he has done.
In the camp before La Rochelle, this 5 August 1628.
Richelieu
After reading these two lines, the cardinal fell to pondering deeply, but he did not give the paper back to d’Artagnan.
“He’s considering by what sort of execution he’ll have me die,” d’Artagnan said to himself. “Well, by heaven, he’ll see how a gentleman dies!”
The young musketeer was perfectly well disposed for a heroic passing.
Richelieu went on thinking, rolling and unrolling the paper in his hands. Finally he raised his head, fixed his eagle eye on that loyal, open, intelligent physiognomy, read on that tear-furrowed face all the sufferings he had endured over the past month, and reflected for the third or fourth time on how much future this boy of twenty-one had before him, and what resources his activity, courage, and spirit could offer to a good master.
On the other hand, the crimes, the power, the infernal genius of Milady had appalled him more than once. He felt a sort of secret joy at being rid forever of this dangerous accomplice.
He slowly tore up the paper that d’Artagnan had so generously given back to him.
“I’m lost,” d’Artagnan said to himself.
And he bowed deeply before the cardinal, as one who says: “Lord, thy will be done!”
The cardinal went to the table, and,