The next day, when Felton entered milady’s apartment he found her standing upon a chair, holding in her hands a cord made of several cambric handkerchiefs torn into strips, twisted together into a kind of rope, and tied at the ends. At the noise Felton made in opening the door milady leaped lightly to the ground and tried to hide behind her the improvised cord she held in her hand.
The young man was even paler than usual, and his eyes, inflamed by lack of sleep, showed that he had passed a feverish night.
Nevertheless, his brow was armed with a sternness more severe than ever.
He advanced slowly toward milady, who had sat down, and taking one end of the murderous rope, which, by mistake or perhaps by design, she allowed to appear,
“What is this, madame?” he asked coldly.
“This? Nothing,” said milady, smiling with that melancholy expression which she knew so well how to give to her smile. “Ennui is the mortal enemy of prisoners; I was blue, and I amused myself with twisting a rope.”
Felton turned his eyes toward that part of the wall of the apartment before which he had found milady standing in the chair in which she was now seated, and over her head he perceived a gilt-headed screw, fixed in the wall for the purpose of hanging up clothes or arms.
He started, and the prisoner saw that start; for though her eyes were cast down, nothing escaped her.
“And what were you doing standing on that chair?” asked he.
“What difference does that make to you?” replied milady.
“But,” replied Felton, “I wish to know.”
“Do not question me,” said the prisoner; “you know that we true Christians are forbidden to tell falsehoods.”
“Well, then,” said Felton, “I will tell you what you were doing, or rather what you were going to do: you were going to finish the fatal work you cherish in your mind. Remember, madame, if our God forbids us to tell falsehoods, He much more severely forbids suicide.”
“When God sees one of His creatures unjustly persecuted, placed between suicide and dishonour, believe me, sir,” replied milady, in a tone of deep conviction, “God pardons suicide, for then suicide is martyrdom.”
“You say either too much or too little. Speak, madame; in Heaven’s name, explain yourself.”
“They have eyes,” repeated milady, with an accent of indescribable grief, “but they see not; ears have they, but they hear not.”
“But,” cried the young officer, “speak, speak, then!”
“Confide my shame to you!” cried milady, with the blush of modesty on her face—“for often the crime of one becomes the shame of another —confide my shame to you, a man, and I a woman! Oh,” continued she, placing her hand modestly over her beautiful eyes, “never! never! —I could not.”
Milady had achieved a half-triumph, and the success obtained doubled her strength.
“You promised me something.”
“What? My God!” said the young man, who, in spite of his self- command, felt his knees tremble and the sweat start from his brow.
“You promised to bring a knife, and to leave it with me after our conversation.”
“Say no more of that, madame,” said Felton. “There is no situation, however terrible, that can authorize one of God’s creatures to inflict death upon itself. I have reflected that I could never become guilty of such a sin.”
“Ah, you have reflected!” said the prisoner, sitting down in her armchair with a smile of disdain; “and I also have reflected.”
“About what?”
“That I can have nothing to say to a man who does not keep his word.”
“Oh, my God!” murmured Felton.
“You may retire,” said milady. “I shall not speak.”
“Here is the knife,” said Felton, drawing from his pocket the weapon which, according to his promise, he had brought, but which he hesitated to give to his prisoner.
“Let me see it,” said milady.
“For what purpose?”
“On my honour I will instantly return it to you. You shall place it on that table, and you may remain between it and me.”
Felton handed the weapon to milady, who examined the temper of it attentively, and tried the point on the tip of her finger.
“Well,” said she, returning the knife to the young officer, “this is fine and good steel. You are a faithful friend, Felton.”
Felton took back the weapon and laid it on the table, in accordance with his agreement with his prisoner.
Milady followed him with her eyes, and made a gesture of satisfaction.
“Now,” said she, “listen to me.”
The recommendation was useless. The young officer was standing before her, awaiting her words as if to devour them.
“Felton,” said milady, with a solemnity full of melancholy, “if your sister, your father’s daughter, said to you,
“While still young, unfortunately beautiful, I was dragged into a snare. I resisted. Ambushes, acts of violence, were multiplied around me. I resisted. The religion I serve, the God I adore, were blasphemed because I called to my aid my religion and my God. I resisted. Then outrages were heaped upon me, and when they could not ruin my soul they determined to defile my body for ever. Finally—”
Milady stopped, and a bitter smile passed over her lips.
“Finally,” said Felton—finally, what did they do?”