CHAPTER FIFTEEN

D'ARTAGNAN OVERHEARS STRANGE WORDS

In spite of Athos's advice, D'Artagnan had fallen in love with Milady and did not fail to visit her almost every evening. He was no longer announced formally, and Milady had given orders that he was to be shown immediately into her private sitting-room whenever he called.

Little did he realize that Milady was playing a part until he overheard her talking with Kitty, her lady's-maid, in the room next to the sitting-room where he was waiting. The door between the two rooms was not quite shut and so he could hear quite clearly what the two were saying.

"Our Gascon friend seems to be late this evening," Milady was saying.

"What! Milady! Can he think so little of your friendship as to be unpunctual?" said Kitty.

"Probably his duties have prevented him from coming. Never mind, I know what I shall do with him, Kitty."

"Why, Madam, what game are you going to play?"

"You may well ask. We shall see. There is something between me and that man of which he is ignorant. He nearly ruined me in the eyes of the Cardinal over that affair of the Queen's diamonds. Oh! I will have my revenge!"

"Oh! I thought that you were in love with him."

"I love him? I hate him! The fool held Lord Winter's life in his hands and did not kill him. By not doing so I lost the use of an inheritance of three hundred thousand livres a year."

"That's true," said Kitty. "Of course, I'd forgotten your ladyship's son is the sole heir of his uncle, and until he becomes of age you will have control of any fortune he inherits."

"Yes," said Milady in a hard, cold voice, "and I should have had my revenge long ago if the Cardinal had not insisted on my being friendly with this hateful Gascon. I cannot understand why."

D'Artagnan shuddered and tiptoed downstairs and out of the house in order to calm his anger.

The next morning D'Artagnan hastened to find Athos and tell him what he had overheard.

"Your Milady," said Athos, "seems to be a very wicked woman. Without doubt you have a terrible enemy."

While speaking, Athos looked attentively at a sapphire ring on D'Artagnan's finger. "That is a beautiful ring you are wearing. It reminds me of a family jewel I once possessed," said he. "Did you exchange your diamond ring for it?"

"No. It is a gift from Milady."

"What! That ring comes from Milady!" cried Athos with emotion.

Athos examined the ring and became pale.

"Impossible! It cannot be," said he to himself. "How could the ring have come into the possession of Milady? Yet it is difficult to suppose that two jewels could be so alike."

"Do you know this ring?" said D'Artagnan.

"I thought I did, but I must have been mistaken," said Athos. "Please, D'Artagnan, either take it off or turn the sapphire round. The ring recalls such cruel memories. But wait! Let me examine the stone. The one I mentioned to you had a scratch on one of its faces."

D'Artagnan took off the ring and handed it to Athos.

Athos looked at it and then started.

"Look," said he, pointing to the scratch he remembered. "It is the same. As I told you, it is the old family jewel I inherited from my mother."

"And you—sold it?" asked D'Artagnan hesitatingly.

"No," replied Athos slowly and thoughtfully. "I gave it to one I loved."

D'Artagnan took back the ring, but put it into his pocket and not on his finger.

"D'Artagnan," said Athos, taking his hand. "You know that I look upon you as a son. Take my advice, avoid this woman. I do not know her, but something tells me that she can only bring evil to you."

"You are right, I will have nothing more to do with her," said D'Artagnan. "But do not worry, as we shall be leaving Paris in a few days to take part in the siege of Rochelle."

After D'Artagnan had gone, Athos sat silent and thoughtful over his wine. His thoughts, troubled by memories of the past, recalled again and again scenes he had often tried, but in vain, to suppress and forget.

He saw himself again, the Comte de la Fère, a young noble of France. The name he bore was ancient and honourable; on his lands he was all-powerful and his word was law.

Included in this picture was a maiden, gentle and beautiful as an angel, seeming to carry with her the breath of spring. She had come with her brother, who had obtained a position in a village church on the Count's estates. So innocent and gentle did she appear, and her brother so pious and God-fearing, that none questioned whence they had come, or doubted for an instant that they were anything but what they appeared to be.

The noble saw the maid often as he rode through the village, and the young man's love for the gentle Anne grew daily.

One after the other there appeared scenes of their walks under the sweet-smelling pines, along the flower-scented paths, beside the cool, rippling brook, and the rustic bridge where they used to linger in the lengthening shadows of the late afternoon. Then there was the summer-house, cool and quiet, almost invisible under the creepers, where he took her, unresisting, in his arms and kissed her.

In spite of the fact that she was not of noble rank, and of the disapproval of his family, the young Count married her and thus made her the first lady of the province.

Athos moved uneasily as the scene faded and there appeared in vivid detail the fatal accident on the hunting field. He saw his wife fall from her horse, and crash to the ground, where she lay in a deathlike faint. He saw himself in trembling fear opening the top of her dress to give her more air to breathe. Then, on the smooth skin of her shoulder, exposed to the eyes of all those crowded round, he saw the awful mark, the sign of the greatest dishonour, the imprint of the public executioner's branding-iron—the fleur-de-lis.

His wife, the Comtesse de la Fère, was a convicted criminal. The discovery dealt his pride a terrible blow from which he never recovered.

That night the Comte de la Fère left his château never to return.

That, by some chance, she might still be alive, in spite of her supposed death, raised no feeling of pity in Athos's heart; time had in no way softened the terrible blow he had received. He raised his glass and drained it. Slowly his head sank till it rested on his arms stretched across the table. The candle burned lower and lower and finally went out unheeded. Thus Athos remained until the cold light of the dawn began to show through the half-open shutters.