Adventure and adventurers -- Fiction; France -- History -- Louis XIII, 1610-1643 -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Swordsmen -- Fiction
And letting fall his cloak and raising his hat, he advanced toward
Milady.
“Do you know me, madame?” said he.
Milady made one step forward, and then drew back as if she had seen a
serpent.
“So far, well,” said Athos, “I perceive you know me.”
“The Comte de la Fère!” murmured Milady, becoming exceedingly pale, and
drawing back till the wall prevented her from going any farther.
“Yes, Milady,” replied Athos; “the Comte de la Fère in person, who
comes expressly from the other world to have the pleasure of paying you
a visit. Sit down, madame, and let us talk, as the cardinal said.”
Milady, under the influence of inexpressible terror, sat down without
uttering a word.
“You certainly are a demon sent upon the earth!” said Athos. “Your
power is great, I know; but you also know that with the help of God men
have often conquered the most terrible demons. You have once before
thrown yourself in my path. I thought I had crushed you, madame; but
either I was deceived or hell has resuscitated you!”
Milady at these words, which recalled frightful remembrances, hung down
her head with a suppressed groan.
“Yes, hell has resuscitated you,” continued Athos. “Hell has made you
rich, hell has given you another name, hell has almost made you another
face; but it has neither effaced the stains from your soul nor the
brand from your body.”
Milady arose as if moved by a powerful spring, and her eyes flashed
lightning. Athos remained sitting.
“You believed me to be dead, did you not, as I believed you to be? And
the name of Athos as well concealed the Comte de la Fère, as the name
Milady Clarik concealed Anne de Breuil. Was it not so you were called
when your honored brother married us? Our position is truly a strange
one,” continued Athos, laughing. “We have only lived up to the present
time because we believed each other dead, and because a remembrance is
less oppressive than a living creature, though a remembrance is
sometimes devouring.”
“But,” said Milady, in a hollow, faint voice, “what brings you back to
me, and what do you want with me?”
“I wish to tell you that though remaining invisible to your eyes, I
have not lost sight of you.”
“You know what I have done?”
“I can relate to you, day by day, your actions from your entrance to
the service of the cardinal to this evening.”
A smile of incredulity passed over the pale lips of Milady.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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