In the morning, when they entered Milady’s chamber they had brought her breakfast. Now, she thought, they could not long delay coming to clear the table, and that Felton would then reappear.
Milady was not deceived. Felton reappeared, and without observing whether Milady had or had not touched her repast, made a sign that the table should be carried out of the room, it having been brought in ready spread.
Felton remained behind; he held a book in his hand.
Milady, reclining in an armchair near the chimney, beautiful, pale, and resigned, looked like a holy virgin awaiting martyrdom.
Felton approached her, and said, “Lord de Winter, who is a Catholic, like yourself, madame, thinking that the deprivation of the rites and ceremonies of your church might be painful to you, has consented that you should read every day the ordinary of your Mass; and here is a book which contains the ritual.”
At the manner in which Felton laid the book upon the little table near which Milady was sitting, at the tone in which he pronounced the two words, YOUR MASS, at the disdainful smile with which he accompanied them, Milady raised her head, and looked more attentively at the officer.
By that plain arrangement of the hair, by that costume of extreme simplicity, by the brow polished like marble and as hard and impenetrable, she recognized one of those gloomy Puritans she had so often met, not only in the court of King James, but in that of the King of France, where, in spite of the remembrance of the St. Bartholomew, they sometimes came to seek refuge.
She then had one of those sudden inspirations which only people of genius receive in great crises, in supreme moments which are to decide their fortunes or their lives.
Those two words, YOUR MASS, and a simple glance cast upon Felton, revealed to her all the importance of the reply she was about to make; but with that rapidity of intelligence which was peculiar to her, this reply, ready arranged, presented itself to her lips:
“I?” said she, with an accent of disdain in unison with that which she had remarked in the voice of the young officer, “I, sir? MY MASS? Lord de Winter, the corrupted Catholic, knows very well that I am not of his religion, and this is a snare he wishes to lay for me!”
“And of what religion are you, then, madame?” asked Felton, with an astonishment which in spite of the empire he held over himself he could not entirely conceal.
“I will tell it,” cried Milady, with a feigned exultation, “on the day when I shall have suffered sufficiently for my faith.”
The look of Felton revealed to Milady the full extent of the space she had opened for herself by this single word.
The young officer, however, remained mute and motionless; his look alone had spoken.
“I am in the hands of my enemies,” continued she, with that tone of enthusiasm which she knew was familiar to the Puritans. “Well, let my God save me, or let me perish for my God! That is the reply I beg you to make to Lord de Winter. And as to this book,” added she, pointing to the manual with her finger but without touching it, as if she must be contaminated by it, “you may carry it back and make use of it yourself, for doubtless you are doubly the accomplice of Lord de Winter—the accomplice in his persecutions, the accomplice in his heresies.”
Felton made no reply, took the book with the same appearance of repugnance which he had before manifested, and retired pensively.
Lord de Winter came toward five o’clock in the evening. Milady had had time, during the whole day, to trace her plan of conduct. She received him like a woman who had already recovered all her advantages.
“It appears,” said the baron, seating himself in the armchair opposite that occupied by Milady, and stretching out his legs carelessly upon the hearth, “it appears we have made a little apostasy!”
“What do you mean, sir!”
“I mean to say that since we last met you have changed your religion. You have not by chance married a Protestant for a third husband, have you?”
“Explain yourself, my Lord,” replied the prisoner, with majesty; “for though I hear your words, I declare I do not understand them.”
“Then you have no religion at all; I like that best,” replied Lord de Winter, laughing.
“Certainly that is most in accord with your own principles,” replied Milady, frigidly.
“Oh, I confess it is all the same to me.”
“Oh, you need not avow this religious indifference, my Lord; your debaucheries and crimes would vouch for it.”
“What, you talk of debaucheries, Madame Messalina, Lady Macbeth! Either I misunderstand you or you are very shameless!”
“You only speak thus because you are overheard,” coolly replied Milady; “and you wish to interest your jailers and your hangmen against me.”
“My jailers and my hangmen! Heyday, madame! you are taking a poetical tone, and the comedy of yesterday turns to a tragedy this evening. As to the rest, in eight days you will be where you ought to be, and my task will be completed.”
“Infamous task! impious task!” cried Milady, with the exultation of a victim who provokes his judge.
“My word,” said de Winter, rising, “I think the hussy is going mad! Come, come, calm yourself, Madame Puritan, or I’ll remove you to a dungeon. It’s my Spanish wine that has got into your head, is it not? But never mind; that sort of intoxication is not dangerous, and will have no bad effects.”
And Lord de Winter retired swearing, which at that period was a very knightly habit.
Felton was indeed behind the door, and had not lost one word of this scene. Milady had guessed aright.
“Yes, go, go!” said she to her brother; “the effects ARE drawing near, on the contrary; but you, weak fool, will not see them until it is too late to shun them.”
Silence was re-established. Two hours passed away. Milady’s supper was brought in, and she was found deeply engaged in saying her prayers aloud—prayers which she had learned of an old servant of her second husband, a most austere Puritan. She appeared to be in ecstasy, and did not pay the least attention to what was going on around her. Felton made a sign that she should not be disturbed; and when all was arranged, he went out quietly with the soldiers.
Milady knew she might be watched, so she continued her prayers to the end; and it appeared to her that the soldier who was on duty at her door did not march with the same step, and seemed to listen. For the moment she wished nothing better. She arose, came to the table, ate but little, and drank only water.
An hour after, her table was cleared; but Milady remarked that this time Felton did not accompany the soldiers. He feared, then, to see her too often.
She turned toward the wall to smile—for there was in this smile such an expression of triumph that this smile alone would have betrayed her.
She allowed, therefore, half an hour to pass away; and as at that moment all was silence in the old castle, as nothing was heard but the eternal murmur of the waves—that immense breaking of the ocean—with her pure, harmonious, and powerful voice, she began the first couplet of the psalm then in great favor with the Puritans:
“Thou leavest thy servants, Lord, To see if they be strong; But soon thou dost afford Thy hand to lead them on.”
These verses were not excellent—very far from it; but as it is well known, the Puritans did not pique themselves upon their poetry.
While singing, Milady listened. The soldier on guard at her door stopped, as if he had been changed into stone. Milady was then able to judge of the effect she had produced.
Then she continued her singing with inexpressible fervor and feeling. It appeared to her that