Title:       Three Musketeers
Author:      Dumas, Alexandre
Date:        1844

Chapter LXI

The Convent Of The Carmelites At Bethune

     Great criminals bear about them a kind of predestination which makes
them surmount all obstacles, which makes them escape all dangers, till the
moment which a wearied Providence has marked as the rock of their impious
fortunes.

     It was thus with milady.  She passed through the cruisers of both
nations, and arrived at Boulogne without accident.

     When landing at Portsmouth, milady was an Englishwoman, whom the
persecutions of the French drove from La Rochelle; when landing at Boulogne,
after a two days' passage, she passed for a Frenchwoman, whom the English
persecuted at Portsmouth, out of their hatred for France.

     Milady had, likewise, her best of passports - her beauty, her noble
appearance, and the liberality with which she distributed her pistoles.
Freed from the usual formalities by the affable smile and gallant manners of
an old governor of port, who kissed her hand, she only remained long enough
at Boulogne to put into the post a letter, conceived in the following terms:

     "To his Eminence Monseigneur the Cardinal de Richelieu, in his camp
before Rochelle.

     "Monseigneur, let your eminence be reassured; his grace the Duke of
Buckingham will not set out for France.

     "Boulogne, evening of the 25th.  Milady De....

     "P.S. - According to the desire of your eminence, I am going to the
convent of the Carmelites of Bethune, where I will await your orders."

     Accordingly, that same evening, milady commenced her journey; night
overtook her; she stopped, and slept at an auberge; at five o'clock the next
morning she again proceeded, and in three hours after entered Bethune.

     She inquired for the convent of the Carmelites, and went to it
immediately.

     The superior came out to her; milady showed her the cardinal's order;
the abbess assigned her a chamber, and had breakfast served.

     All the past was effaced from the eyes of this woman, and her looks,
fixed on the future, beheld nothing but the high fortunes reserved for her
by the cardinal, whom she had so successfully served, without his name being
in any way mixed up with the sanguinary affair.  The ever-new passions which
consumed her gave to her life the appearance of those clouds which float in
the heavens, reflecting sometimes azure, sometimes fire, sometimes the opaque
blackness of the tempest, and which leave no traces upon the earth behind
them but devastation and death.

     After breakfast the abbess came to pay her a visit.  There is very
little amusement in the cloister, and the good superior was eager to make
acquaintance with her new pensioner.

     Milady wished to please the abbess.  Now this was a very easy matter for
a woman so really superior as she was, she endeavored to be agreeable, and
she was charming, winning the good superior by her varied conversation and
by the graces spread over her whole person.

     The abbess, who was the daughter of a noble house, took particular
delight in histories of the court, which so seldom travel to the extremities
of the kingdom, and which, above all, have so much difficulty in penetrating
the walls of convents, at whose gates the noise of the world appears to die
away.

     Milady, on the contrary, was quite conversant in all aristocratic
intrigues, amid which she had constantly lived for five or six years; she
made it her business, then, to amuse the good abbess with the mundane
practices of the court of France, mixed with the extravagant devotions of the
king: she made for her the scandalous chronicle of the lords and ladies of
the court, whom the abbess knew perfectly by name, touched lightly on the
amours of the queen and the Duke of Buckingham, talking a great deal to
induce her auditor to talk a little.

     But the abbess contented herself with listening and smiling, without
replying a word.  Milady, however, saw that this style of conversation amused
her very much, and continued; only she now turned to chat in the direction
of the cardinal.

     But she was greatly embarrassed - she did not know whether the abbess
was a royalist or a cardinalist; she therefore confined herself to a prudent
middle course.  But the abbess, on her part, maintained a reserve still more
prudent, contenting herself with making a profound inclination of the head
every time that the fair traveler pronounced the name of his eminence.

     Milady began to conceive she should soon grow weary of a convent life;
she resolved then, to risk something, in order that she might know how to act
afterward.  Desirous of seeing how far the discretion of the good abbess
would go, she began to tell a story, obscure at first, but very
circumstantial afterward, of the cardinal, relating the amours of the
minister with Madame d'Aiguillon, Marion de Lorme, and several other women
of gallantry.

     The abbess listened more attentively, grew animated by degrees, and
smiled.

     "Good!" thought milady; "she takes a pleasure in my conversation.  If
she is a cardinalist, she has no fanaticism in her partiality."

     She then went on to describe the persecutions exercised by the cardinal
upon his enemies.  The abbess only crossed herself, without approving or
disapproving.

     This confirmed milady in her opinion that the abbess was rather a
royalist than a cardinalist; milady, therefore, continued, heightening her
narrations more and more.

     "I am very little acquainted with all these matters," said the abbess
at length; "but however distant from the court we may be, however remote from
the interests of the world we may be placed, we have very sad examples of
what you have related; and one of our pensioners has suffered much from the
vengeance and persecutions of Monsieur le Cardinal."

     "One of your pensioners!" said milady; "oh, my God!  poor woman, I pity
her, then."

     "And you have reason to do so, for she is much to be pitied:
imprisonment, menaces, ill treatment, she has suffered everything.  But after
all," resumed the abbess, "Monsieur le Cardinal has, perhaps, plausible
motives for acting thus; and though she has the look of an angel, we must not
always judge people by appearances."

     "Good!" said milady to herself; "who knows!  I am about perhaps, to
discover something here; I am in the vein."

     And she tried to give her countenance an appearance of perfect candor.

     "Alas!" said milady, "I know it is so.  It is said that we must not
trust to the physiognomy; but in what, then, shall we place confidence, if
not in the most beautiful work of the Lord?  As for me, I shall be deceived
all my life, perhaps, but I shall always have faith in a person whose
countenance inspires me with sympathy."

     "You would, then, be tempted to believe," said the abbess, "that this
young person was innocent?"

     "M. le Cardinal does not always pursue crimes," said she; "there are
certain virtues that he pursues more severely than certain offences."

     "Permit me, madame, to express my surprise," said the abbess.

     "Upon what occasion?" said milady, with the utmost ingenuousness.

     "Upon the language you hold."

     "What do you find so astonishing in that language?" said milady,
smiling.

     "You are the friend of the cardinal, for he sends you hither, and yet
- "

     "And yet I speak ill of him," replied milady, finishing the thought of
the superior.

     "At least, you don't speak well of him."

     "That is because I am not his friend," said she, sighing, "but his
victim!"

     "Well, but this letter by which he recommends you to me?"

     "Is an order for me to confine myself to a sort of prison, from which
he will release me by one of his satellites."

     "But why have you not fled?"

     "Whither should I go?  Do you believe there is a spot on the earth which
the cardinal cannot reach, if he takes the trouble to stretch forth his hand?
If I were a man, certainly that would be possible, but what can a woman do?
This young pensioner of yours, has she endeavored to fly?"

     "No, that is true; but she - that is another thing, for I believe she
is detained in France by some love affair."

     "Ah," said milady, with a sigh, "if she is in love, she is not
altogether wretched."

     "Then," said the abbess, looking at her with increasing interest, "I
behold another poor persecuted woman?"

     "Alas!  yes," said milady.

     The abbess looked at her for an instant with uneasiness, as if a fresh
thought had arisen in her mind.

     "You are not an enemy of our holy faith?" said she, hesitatingly.

     "Who - I?" cried milady - "I a Protestant!  Oh, no!  I attest the God
who hears us, that, on the contrary, I am a fervent Catholic!"

     "Then, madame," said the abbess, smiling, "be reassured; the house in
which you are shall not be a very hard prison, and we will do all in our
power to make you in love with your captivity.  You will find here, moreover,
the young woman of whom I spoke, who is persecuted, no doubt, in consequence
of some court intrigue.  She is amiable and well-behaved."

     "What is her name?"

     "She was sent to me by some one of high rank, under the name of Kitty.
I have not endeavored to discover her other name."

     "Kitty!" cried milady; "what!  are you sure?"

     "That she is called so?  Yes, madame.  Do you know her?"

     Milady smiled to herself at the idea which had occurred to her, that
this might be her old waiting-maid.  There was connected with the remembrance
of this girl a remembrance of anger; and a desire of vengeance disordered the
features of milady, but which, however, immediately recovered the calm and
benevolent expression which this woman of a hundred faces had for a moment
allowed them to lose.

     "And when can I see this young lady, for whom I already feel so great
a sympathy?" asked milady.

     "Why, this evening," said the abbess; "to-day even.  But you have been
traveling these four days, as you told me: this morning you rose at five
o'clock; you must stand in need of repose.  Go to bed and sleep, at
dinner-time we will call you."

     Although milady would very willingly have gone without sleep, sustained
as she was by all the excitements that a fresh adventure awakened in her
heart, ever thirsting for intrigues, she nevertheless accepted the offer of
the superior: during the last fifteen days she had experienced so many and
such various emotions, that if her frame of iron was still capable of
supporting fatigue, her mind required repose.

     She therefore took leave of the abbess, and went to bed, softly rocked
by the ideas of vengeance which the name of Kitty had naturally brought back
to her thoughts.  She remembered that almost unlimited promise which the
cardinal had given her if she succeeded in her enterprise.  She had
succeeded, D'Artagnan was then in her power!

     One thing alone frightened her; that was, the remembrance of her
husband, the Count de la Fere, whom she had thought dead, or at least
expatriated, and whom she found again in Athos, the best friend of
D'Artagnan.

     But also, if he was the friend of D'Artagnan, he must have lent him his
assistance in all the proceedings by the means of which the queen had
defeated the projects of his eminence; if he was the friend of D'Artagnan,
he was the enemy of the cardinal; and she, doubtless, should succeed in
enveloping him in the folds of the vengeance by which she hoped to destroy
the young musketeer.

     All these hopes were so many sweet thoughts for milady; so, rocked by
them, she soon fell asleep.

     She was awakened by a soft voice, which sounded at the foot of her bed.
She opened her eyes, and saw the abbess, accompanied by a young woman, with
light hair and a delicate complexion, who fixed upon her a look full of
benevolent curiosity.

     The face of the young woman was entirely unknown to her; each examined
the other with great attention, while exchanging the customary compliments;
both were very handsome, but of quite different styles of beauty.  Milady,
however, smiled on observing that she excelled the young woman by far in her
high air and aristocratic bearing.  It is true that the habit of a novice,
which the young woman wore, was not very advantageous in a contest of this
kind.

     The abbess introduced them to each other; then, when this formality was
gone through, as her duties called her to the church, she left the two young
women alone.

     The novice, seeing milady remained in bed, was about to follow the
example of the superior; but milady stopped her.

     "How, madame," said she, "I have scarcely seen you, and you already wish
to deprive me of your company, upon which I had reckoned a little, I must
confess, during the time I have to pass here?"

     "No, madame," replied the novice, "only I thought I had chosen my time
ill; you were asleep - you are fatigued."

     "Well," said milady, "what can people who are asleep wish for?  a happy
awakening.  This awakening you have given me; allow me then to enjoy it at
my ease;" and taking her hand, she drew her toward the chair by the bedside.

     The novice sat down.

     "How unfortunate I am!" said she; "I have been here six months, without
the shadow of an amusement, you arrive, and your presence was likely to
afford me delightful company, and I expect, according to all probability,
from one moment to another, to leave the convent."

     "Are you then going soon?" asked milady.

     "At least I hope so," said the novice, with an expression of joy which
she made no effort to disguise.

     "I think I learned you had suffered persecutions from the cardinal,"
continued milady "that would have been another motive for sympathy between
us."

     "What I have heard then from our good mother is true; you have likewise
been a victim of that wicked priest?"

     "Hush!" said milady; "let us not, even here, speak thus of him; almost
all my misfortunates arise from my having said nearly what you have said,
before a woman whom I thought my friend, and who betrayed me.  Are you also
the victim of a treachery?"

     "No," said the novice, "but of my devotedness; of a devotedness to a
woman I loved, for whom I would have laid down my life, for whom I would
still do so."

     "And who has abandoned you, is that it?"

     "I have been sufficiently unjust to believe so; but during the last two
or three days I have obtained proof to the contrary, for which I thank God!
for it would have cost me very dear to think that she had forgotten me.  But
you, madame, you appear to be free: and if you were inclined to fly, it only
rests with yourself to do so."

     "Whither would you have me go, without friends, without money, in a part
of France with which I am unacquainted, and where I have never been before?"

     "Oh!" cried the novice, "as to friends you would have them wherever you
went, you appear so good and are so beautiful!"

     "That does not prevent," replied milady, softening her smile as to give
it an angelic expression, "my being alone oa being persecuted."

     "Hear me," said the novice; "we must trust in heaven; there always comes
a moment when the good you have done pleads your cause before God; and, see,
perhaps, it is a happiness for you, humble and powerless as I am, that you
have met with me: for, if I leave this place; well!  I have powerful friends,
who, after having exerted themselves on my account, may also exert themselves
for you."

     "Oh!  when I said I was alone," said milady, hoping to make the novice
speak by speaking of herself, "it is not for want of some highly-placed
friends; but these friends themselves tremble before the cardinal: the queen
herself does not dare to oppose the terrible minister: I have proof that her
majesty, notwithstanding her excellent heart, has more than once been obliged
to abandon persons who had served her, to the anger of his eminence."

     "Trust me, madame, the queen may appear to have abandoned those persons;
but we must not put faith in appearances: the more they are persecuted, the
more she thinks of them; and often, when they the least expect it, they
receive proofs of a kind remembrance."

     "Alas!" said milady, "I believe so; the queen is so good!"

     "Oh!  you know her, then!  that lovely and noble queen, by your speaking
of her thus!" cried the novice, warmly.

     "That is to say," replied milady, driven into her intrenchments, "that
I have not the honor of knowing her personally; but I know a great number of
her most intimate friends; I am acquainted with M. de Putange; I met M.
Dujart in England: I know M. de Treville."

     "M. de Treville!" exclaimed the novice, "do you know M. de Treville?"

     "Yes, perfectly well, intimately even."

     "What, the captain of the king's musketeers?"

     "Yes, the captain of the king's musketeers."

     "Oh!  why then, only see!" cried the novice, "we shall soon be well
acquainted, almost friends; if you know M. de Treville, you must have visited
him?"

     "Often!" said milady, who having entered this track, and perceiving that
falsehood succeeded, was determined to carry it on.

     "If you have visited him, you must have met some of his musketeers?"

     "All such as he is in the habit of receiving!" replied milady, for whom
this conversation began to have a real interest.

     "Name a few of those you know, and you will find they are my friends."

     "Well!" said milady, a little embarrassed, "I know M. de Sauvigny, M.
de Courtviron, M. de Ferrusac."

     The novice let her speak, but observing she stopped -

     "Don't you know," said she, "a gentlemen of the name of Athos?"

     Milady became as pale as the sheets in which she was reclining, and
mistress as she was of herself, could not help uttering a cry, seizing the
hand of the novice, and devouring her with her looks.

     "What is the matter?  Good God!" asked the poor woman; "have I said
anything that has hurt your feelings?"

     "No, no; but the name struck me; because I also have known that
gentleman, and it appeared strange to me to meet with a person who appears
to know him well."

     "Oh, yes, well!  very well!  not only him, but some of his friends: MM.
Porthos and Aramis."

     "Indeed!  you know them, likewise!  I know them," cried milady, who
began to feel a chill penetrate to her heart.

     "Well!  if you know them, you know that they are good and worthy
gentlemen; why do you not apply to them, if you stand in need of support?"

     "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, a Monsieur
d'Artagnan, say a great deal about them."

     "You know M. d'Artagnan!" cried the novice, in her turn seizing the
hands of milady, and fixing her eyes upon her.

     Then, remarking the strange expression of milady's countenance:

     "Pardon me, madame," said she, "you know him, by what title?"

     "Why," replied milady, considerably embarrassed, "why by the title of
friend."

     "You are deceiving 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 in 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 illuminated by so savage a joy, that under
any other circumstance Madame Bonacieux would have fled away in terror; but
she was absorbed by her jealousy.

     "Speak, madame!" resumed Madame Bonacieux, with an energy of which she
might not have been thought to be capable, "have you been, or are you his
mistress?"

     "Oh, no!" cried milady, with a tone that admitted no doubt of her truth;
"never!  never!"

     "I believe you," said Madame 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 M. d'Artagnan, being my friend, might take
me into his confidence?"

     "Indeed!"

     "Do you not perceive that I know all?  Your being carried off 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 Madame Bonacieux, who, convinced
by what she had just said, saw nothing in this woman, whom an instant before
she had believed to be 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 dearly!"

     These two women held each other for an instant in a close embrace.
Certes, if milady's strength had been equal to her hatred, Madame Bonacieux
would have never escaped alive from that embrace.

     But not being able to stifle her, she smiled upon her.

     "Oh!  dear, pretty, 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 with her eyes.  "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 was passing of
frightful cruelty 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 Madame 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 Madame Bonacieux, "my punishment is drawing to a
close: to-morrow, 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 any news from him?"

     "I expect him himself."

     "Him himself!  D'Artagnan here!"

     "Yes, him himself!"

     "But that's impossible!  He is at the siege of La Rochelle, with the
cardinal; he will not return before 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.

     "Humph!  the writing of Madame de Chevreuse!" said milady to herself.
"Ah!  I always thought there was some intelligence carried on on that side."
And she greedily read the following few lines:

     "My Dear Child: Hold yourself in readiness.  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 to him 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 was warned the queen against some fresh
machinations of the cardinal."

     "Yes, that's it, no doubt!" said milady, returning the letter to Madame
Bonacieux, and allowing her head to sink in a pensive manner upon her bosom.

     At that moment the galloping of a horse was heard.

     "Oh!" cried Madame 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.

     "Ho!  ho!" murmured she; "can it be he?" And she remained in bed with
her eyes fixed.

     "Alas!  no," said Madame Bonacieux: "it is a man I don't know; and yet
he seems to be coming here.  Yes, he has checked his horse - he stops at the
gate - he rings."

     Milady sprang out of bed.

     "Are you sure it is not he?" said she.

     "Oh!  yes - very sure!"

     "Perhaps you did not see him plainly?"

     "Oh!  if I were to see the plume of his hat, the end of his cloak, I
should know him!"

     Milady continued to dress herself.

     "Never mind!  The man is coming here, do you say?"

     "Yes, he is come in."

     "He must come either to you or to me."

     "Good God!  how agitated you seem!"

     "Yes, I admit I am so.  I have not your confidence; I am in dread of the
cardinal."

     "Hush!" said Madame Bonacieux; "somebody is coming."

     In fact, the door opened, and the superior entered.

     "Do you come from Boulogne?" demanded she of milady.

     "Yes, I do," replied she, endeavoring to recover her self-possession;
"Who wants me?"

     "A man who will not tell his name, but who comes from the cardinal."

     "And who wishes to speak with me?" asked milady.

     "Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne."

     "Then let him come in, if you please."

     "Good God!  good God!" cried Madame Bonacieux; "can it be any bad news?"

     "I am afraid so."

     "I will leave you with this stranger, but as soon as he is gone, if you
will permit me, I will return."

     "Certainly!  I beg you will." The superior and Madame Bonacieux retired.
Milady was left alone, with her eyes fixed upon the floor.  An instant after,
the jingling of spurs was heard upon the stairs, steps drew near, the door
opened, and a man appeared.

     Milady uttered a cry of joy: this man was the Count de Rochefort, the
ame damnee of the cardinal.