letters which indicated a rendezvous, substituted himself,
under disguise, for the person who was expected, and took
advantage of the darkness.”
“That is perfectly true,” said D’Artagnan.
A slight murmur was heard from those present. “Yes, I was
guilty of that dishonorable action. You should have added,
monsieur, since you are so impartial, that, at the period
when the circumstance which you have just related, happened,
I was not one-and-twenty years of age.”
“Such an action is not the less shameful on that account,”
said De Wardes; “and it is quite sufficient for a gentleman
to have attained the age of reason, to avoid committing an
act of indelicacy.”
A renewed murmur was heard, but this time of astonishment,
and almost of doubt.
“It was a most shameful deception, I admit,” said
D’Artagnan, “and I have not waited for M. de Wardes’s
reproaches to reproach myself for it, and very bitterly,
too. Age has, however, made me more reasonable, and above
all, more upright; and this injury has been atoned for by a
long and lasting regret. But I appeal to you, gentlemen;
this affair took place in 1626, at a period, happily for
yourselves, known to you by tradition only, at a period when
love was not over scrupulous, when consciences did not
distill, as in the present day, poison and bitterness. We
were young soldiers, always fighting, or being attacked, our
swords always in our hands, or at least ready to be drawn
from their sheaths. Death then always stared us in the face,
war hardened us, and the cardinal pressed us sorely. I have
repented of it, and more than that — I still repent it, M.
de Wardes.”
“I can well understand that, monsieur, for the action itself
needed repentance; but you were not the less the cause of
that lady’s disgrace. She, of whom you have been speaking,
covered with shame, borne down by the affront you brought
upon her, fled, quitted France, and no one ever knew what
became of her.”
“Stay,” said the Comte de la Fere, stretching his hand
towards De Wardes, with a peculiar smile upon his face, “you
are mistaken; she was seen; and there are persons even now
present, who, having often heard her spoken of, will easily
recognize her by the description I am about to give. She was
about five-and-twenty years of age, slender in form, of a
pale complexion, and fair-haired; she was married in
England.”
“Married?” exclaimed De Wardes.
“So, you were not aware she was married? You see we are far
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better informed than yourself. Do you happen to know she was
usually styled `My Lady,’ without the addition of any name
to that description?”
“Yes, I know that.”
“Good Heavens!” murmured Buckingham.
“Very well, monsieur. That woman, who came from England,
returned to England after having thrice attempted M.
d’Artagnan’s life. That was but just, you will say, since M.
d’Artagnan had insulted her. But that which was not just
was, that, when in England, this woman, by her seductions,
completely enslaved a young man in the service of Lord de
Winter, by name Felton. You change color, my lord,” said
Athos turning to the Duke of Buckingham, “and your eyes
kindle with anger and sorrow. Let your Grace finish the
recital, then, and tell M. de Wardes who this woman was who
placed the knife in the hand of your father’s murderer.”
A cry escaped from the lips of all present. The young duke
passed his handkerchief across his forehead, which was
covered with perspiration. A dead silence ensued among the
spectators.
“You see, M. de Wardes,” said D’Artagnan, whom this recital
had impressed more and more, as his own recollection revived
as Athos spoke, “you see that my crime did not cause the
destruction of any one’s soul, and that the soul in question
may fairly be considered to have been altogether lost before
my regret. It is, however, an act of conscience on my part.
Now this matter is settled, therefore, it remains for me to
ask with the greatest humility, your forgiveness for this
shameless action, as most certainly I should have asked it