Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas (early readers .TXT) 📖
- Author: Alexandre Dumas
Book online «The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas (early readers .TXT) 📖». Author Alexandre Dumas
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.”
“And who wishes to speak with me?”
“Who wishes to speak to a lady recently come from Boulogne.”
“Then let him come in, if you please.”
“Oh, my God, my God!” cried Mme. Bonacieux. “Can it be bad news?”
“I fear it.”
“I will leave you with this stranger; but as soon as he is gone, if you will permit me, I will return.”
“PERMIT you? I BESEECH you.”
The superior and Mme. Bonacieux retired.
Milady remained alone, with her eyes fixed upon the door. An instant later, 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 Comte de Rochefort—the demoniacal tool of his Eminence.
TWO VARIETIES OF DEMONS
Ah,” cried Milady and Rochefort together, “it is you!”
“Yes, it is I.”
“And you come?” asked Milady.
“From La Rochelle; and you?”
“From England.”
“Buckingham?”
“Dead or desperately wounded, as I left without having been able to hear anything of him. A fanatic has just assassinated him.”
“Ah,” said Rochefort, with a smile; “this is a fortunate chance—one that will delight his Eminence! Have you informed him of it?”
“I wrote to him from Boulogne. But what brings you here?”
“His Eminence was uneasy, and sent me to find you.”
“I only arrived yesterday.”
“And what have you been doing since yesterday?”
“I have not lost my time.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that.”
“Do you know whom I have encountered here?”
“No.”
“Guess.”
“How can I?”
“That young woman whom the queen took out of prison.”
“The mistress of that fellow d’Artagnan?”
“Yes; Madame Bonacieux, with whose retreat the cardinal was unacquainted.”
“Well, well,” said Rochefort, “here is a chance which may pair off with the other! Monsieur Cardinal is indeed a privileged man!”
“Imagine my astonishment,” continued Milady, “when I found myself face to face with this woman!”
“Does she know you?”
“No.”
“Then she looks upon you as a stranger?”
Milady smiled. “I am her best friend.”
“Upon my honor,” said Rochefort, “it takes you, my dear countess, to perform such miracles!”
“And it is well I can, Chevalier,” said Milady, “for do you know what is going on here?”
“No.”
“They will come for her tomorrow or the day after, with an order from the queen.”
“Indeed! And who?”
“D’Artagnan and his friends.”
“Indeed, they will go so far that we shall be obliged to send them to the Bastille.”
“Why is it not done already?”
“What would you? The cardinal has a weakness for these men which I cannot comprehend.”
“Indeed!”
“Yes.”
“Well, then, tell him this, Rochefort. Tell him that our conversation at the inn of the Red Dovecot was overheard by these four men; tell him that after his departure one of them came up to me and took from me by violence the safe-conduct which he had given me; tell him they warned Lord de Winter of my journey to England; that this time they nearly foiled my mission as they foiled the affair of the studs; tell him that among these four men two only are to be feared—d’Artagnan and Athos; tell him that the third, Aramis, is the lover of Madame de Chevreuse—he may be left alone, we know his secret, and it may be useful; as to the fourth, Porthos, he is a fool, a simpleton, a blustering booby, not worth troubling himself about.”
“But these four men must be now at the siege of La Rochelle?”
“I thought so, too; but a letter which Madame Bonacieux has received from Madame the Constable, and which she has had the imprudence to show me, leads me to believe that these four men, on the contrary, are on the road hither to take her away.”
“The devil! What’s to be done?”
“What did the cardinal say about me?”
“I was to take your dispatches, written or verbal, and return by post; and when he shall know what you have done, he will advise what you have to do.”
“I must, then, remain here?”
“Here, or in the neighborhood.”
“You cannot take me with you?”
“No, the order is imperative. Near the camp you might be recognized; and your presence, you must be aware, would compromise the cardinal.”
“Then I must wait here, or in the neighborhood?”
“Only tell me beforehand where you will wait for intelligence from the cardinal; let me know always where to find you.”
“Observe, it is probable that I may not be able to remain here.”
“Why?”
“You forget that my enemies may arrive at any minute.”
“That’s true; but is this little woman, then, to escape his Eminence?”
“Bah!” said Milady, with a smile that belonged only to herself; “you forget that I am her best friend.”
“Ah, that’s true! I may then tell the cardinal, with respect to this little woman—”
“That he may be at ease.”
“Is that all?”
“He will know what that means.”
“He will guess, at least. Now, then, what had I better do?”
“Return instantly. It appears to me that the news you bear is worth the trouble of a little diligence.”
“My chaise broke down coming into Lilliers.”
“Capital!”
“What, CAPITAL?”
“Yes, I want your chaise.”
“And how shall I travel, then?”
“On horseback.”
“You talk very comfortably,—a hundred and eighty leagues!”
“What’s that?”
“One can do it! Afterward?”
“Afterward? Why, in passing through Lilliers you will send me your chaise, with an order to your servant to place himself at my disposal.”
“Well.”
“You have, no doubt, some order from the cardinal about you?”
“I have my FULL POWER.”
“Show it to the abbess, and tell her that someone will come and fetch me, either today or tomorrow, and that I am to follow the person who presents himself in your name.”
“Very well.”
“Don’t forget to treat me harshly in speaking of me to the abbess.”
“To what purpose?”
“I am a victim of the cardinal. It is necessary to inspire confidence in that poor little Madame Bonacieux.”
“That’s true. Now, will you make me a report of all that has happened?”
“Why, I have related the events to you. You have a good memory; repeat what I have told you. A paper may be lost.”
“You are right; only let me know where to find you that I may not run needlessly about the neighborhood.”
“That’s correct; wait!”
“Do you want a map?”
“Oh, I know this country marvelously!”
“You? When were you here?”
“I was brought up here.”
“Truly?”
“It is worth something, you see, to have been brought up somewhere.”
“You will wait for me, then?”
“Let me reflect a little! Ay, that will do—at Armentieres.”
“Where is that Armentieres?”
“A little town on the Lys; I shall only have to cross the river, and I shall be in a foreign country.”
“Capital! but it is understood you will only cross the river in case of danger.”
“That is well understood.”
“And in that case, how shall I know where you are?”
“You do not want your lackey?”
“Is he a sure man?”
“To the proof.”
“Give
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