“That is to say,” stammered Milady, “I am not really very intimate with any of them. I know them from having heard one of their friends, Monsieur d’Artagnan, say a great deal about them.”
“You know Monsieur d’Artagnan!” cried the novice, in her turn seizing the hands of Milady and devouring her with her eyes.
Then remarking the strange expression of Milady’s countenance, she said, “Pardon me, madame; you know him by what title?”
“Why,” replied Milady, embarrassed, “why, by the title of friend.”
“You deceive me, madame,” said the novice; “you have been his mistress!”
“It is you who have been his mistress, madame!” cried Milady, in her turn.
“I?” said the novice.
“Yes, you! I know you now. You are Madame Bonacieux!”
The young woman drew back, filled with surprise and terror.
“Oh, do not deny it! Answer!” continued Milady.
“Well, yes, madame,” said the novice, “Are we rivals?”
The countenance of Milady was illumined by so savage a joy that under any other circumstances Mme. Bonacieux would have fled in terror; but she was absorbed by jealousy.
“Speak, madame!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, with an energy of which she might not have been believed capable. “Have you been, or are you, his mistress?”
“Oh, no!” cried Milady, with an accent that admitted no doubt of her truth. “Never, never!”
“I believe you,” said Mme. Bonacieux; “but why, then, did you cry out so?”
“Do you not understand?” said Milady, who had already overcome her agitation and recovered all her presence of mind.
“How can I understand? I know nothing.”
“Can you not understand that Monsieur d’Artagnan, being my friend, might take me into his confidence?”
“Truly?”
“Do you not perceive that I know all—your abduction from the little house at St. Germain, his despair, that of his friends, and their useless inquiries up to this moment? How could I help being astonished when, without having the least expectation of such a thing, I meet you face to face—you, of whom we have so often spoken together, you whom he loves with all his soul, you whom he had taught me to love before I had seen you! Ah, dear Constance, I have found you, then; I see you at last!”
And Milady stretched out her arms to Mme. Bonacieux, who, convinced by what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman whom an instant before she had believed her rival but a sincere and devoted friend.
“Oh, pardon me, pardon me!” cried she, sinking upon the shoulders of Milady. “Pardon me, I love him so much!”
These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace. Certainly, if Milady’s strength had been equal to her hatred, Mme. Bonacieux would never have left that embrace alive. But not being able to stifle her, she smiled upon her.
“Oh, you beautiful, good little creature!” said Milady. “How delighted I am to have found you! Let me look at you!” and while saying these words, she absolutely devoured her by her looks. “Oh, yes it is you indeed! From what he has told me, I know you now. I recognize you perfectly.”
The poor young woman could not possibly suspect what frightful cruelty was behind the rampart of that pure brow, behind those brilliant eyes in which she read nothing but interest and compassion.
“Then you know what I have suffered,” said Mme. Bonacieux, “since he has told you what he has suffered; but to suffer for him is happiness.”
Milady replied mechanically, “Yes, that is happiness.” She was thinking of something else.
“And then,” continued Mme. Bonacieux, “my punishment is drawing to a close. Tomorrow, this evening, perhaps, I shall see him again; and then the past will no longer exist.”
“This evening?” asked Milady, roused from her reverie by these words. “What do you mean? Do you expect news from him?”
“I expect himself.”
“Himself? D’Artagnan here?”
“Himself!”
“But that’s impossible! He is at the siege of La Rochelle with the cardinal. He will not return till after the taking of the city.”
“Ah, you fancy so! But is there anything impossible for my d’Artagnan, the noble and loyal gentleman?”
“Oh, I cannot believe you!”
“Well, read, then!” said the unhappy young woman, in the excess of her pride and joy, presenting a letter to Milady.
“The writing of Madame de Chevreuse!” said Milady to herself. “Ah, I always thought there was some secret understanding in that quarter!” And she greedily read the following few lines:
My Dear Child, Hold yourself ready. OUR FRIEND will see you soon, and he will only see you to release you from that imprisonment in which your safety required you should be concealed. Prepare, then, for your departure, and never despair of us.
Our charming Gascon has just proved himself as brave and faithful as ever. Tell him that certain parties are grateful for the warning he has given.
“Yes, yes,” said Milady; “the letter is precise. Do you know what that warning was?”
“No, I only suspect he has warned the queen against some fresh machinations of the cardinal.”
“Yes, that’s it, no doubt!” said Milady, returning the letter to Mme. Bonacieux, and letting her head sink pensively upon her bosom.
At that moment they heard the gallop of a horse.
“Oh!” cried Mme. Bonacieux, darting to the window, “can it be he?”
Milady remained still in bed, petrified by surprise; so many unexpected things happened to her all at once that for the first time she was at a loss.
“He, he!” murmured she; “can it be he?” And she remained in bed with her eyes fixed.
“Alas, no!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “it is a man I don’t know, although he seems to be coming here. Yes, he checks his pace; he stops at the gate; he rings.”
Milady sprang out of bed.
“You are sure it is not he?” said she.
“Yes, yes, very sure!”
“Perhaps you did not see well.”
“Oh, if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I should know HIM!”
Milady was dressing herself all the time.
“Yes, he has entered.”
“It is for you or me!”
“My God, how agitated you seem!”
“Yes, I admit it. I have not your confidence; I fear the cardinal.”
“Hush!” said Mme. Bonacieux; “somebody is coming.”
Immediately the door opened, and the superior entered.
“Did you come from Boulogne?” demanded she of Milady.
“Yes,” replied she, trying to recover her self-possession. “Who wants me?”
“A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal.”