“‘Till tomorrow evening, then!’ replied I, allowing myself to fall, and biting the carpet with rage.”
Felton leaned for support upon a piece of furniture; and Milady saw, with the joy of a demon, that his strength would fail him perhaps before the end of her recital.
57 MEANS FOR CLASSICAL TRAGEDY
After a moment of silence employed by Milady in observing the young man who listened to her, Milady continued her recital.
“It was nearly three days since I had eaten or drunk anything. I suffered frightful torments. At times there passed before me clouds which pressed my brow, which veiled my eyes; this was delirium.
“When the evening came I was so weak that every time I fainted I thanked God, for I thought I was about to die.
“In the midst of one of these swoons I heard the door open. Terror recalled me to myself.
“He entered the apartment followed by a man in a mask. He was masked likewise; but I knew his step, I knew his voice, I knew him by that imposing bearing which hell has bestowed upon his person for the curse of humanity.
“‘Well,’ said he to me, ‘have you made your mind up to take the oath I requested of you?’
“‘You have said Puritans have but one word. Mine you have heard, and that is to pursue you–on earth to the tribunal of men, in heaven to the tribunal of God.’
“‘You persist, then?’
“‘I swear it before the God who hears me. I will take the whole world as a witness of your crime, and that until I have found an avenger.’
“‘You are a prostitute,’ said he, in a voice of thunder, ‘and you shall undergo the punishment of prostitutes! Branded in the eyes of the world you invoke, try to prove to that world that you are neither guilty nor mad!’
“Then, addressing the man who accompanied him, ‘Executioner,’ said he, ‘do your duty.'”
“Oh, his name, his name!” cried Felton. “His name, tell it me!”
“Then in spite of my cries, in spite of my resistance–for I began to comprehend that there was a question of something worse than death–the executioner seized me, threw me on the floor, fastened me with his bonds, and suffocated by sobs, almost without sense, invoking God, who did not listen to me, I uttered all at once a frightful cry of pain and shame. A burning fire, a red-hot iron, the iron of the executioner, was imprinted on my shoulder.”
Felton uttered a groan.
“Here,” said Milady, rising with the majesty of a queen, “here, Felton, behold the new martyrdom invented for a pure young girl, the victim of the brutality of a villain. Learn to know the heart of men, and henceforth make yourself less easily the instrument of their unjust vengeance.”
Milady, with a rapid gesture, opened her robe, tore the cambric that covered her bosom, and red with feigned anger and simulated shame, showed the young man the ineffaceable impression which dishonored that beautiful shoulder.
“But,” cried Felton, “that is a FLEUR-DE-LIS which I see there.”
“And therein consisted the infamy,” replied Milady. “The brand of England!–it would be necessary to prove what tribunal had imposed it on me, and I could have made a public appeal to all the tribunals of the kingdom; but the brand of France!–oh, by that, by THAT I was branded indeed!”
This was too much for Felton.
Pale, motionless, overwhelmed by this frightful revelation, dazzled by the superhuman beauty of this woman who unveiled herself before him with an immodesty which appeared to him sublime, he ended by falling on his knees before her as the early Christians did before those pure and holy martyrs whom the persecution of the emperors gave up in the circus to the sanguinary sensuality of the populace. The brand disappeared; the beauty alone remained.
“Pardon! Pardon!” cried Felton, “oh, pardon!”
Milady read in his eyes LOVE! LOVE!
“Pardon for what?” asked she.
“Pardon me for having joined with your persecutors.”
Milady held out her hand to him.
“So beautiful! so young!” cried Felton, covering that hand with his kisses.
Milady let one of those looks fall upon him which make a slave of a king.