Essential Novelists - Alexandre Dumas. Alexandre DumasЧитать онлайн книгу.
“Hold your tongue, imprudent man! Do you wish to destroy me?”
“You see very plainly that there is still danger for you, since a single word makes you tremble; and you confess that if that word were heard you would be ruined. Come, come, madame!” cried d’Artagnan, seizing her hands, and surveying her with an ardent glance, “come, be more generous. Confide in me. Have you not read in my eyes that there is nothing but devotion and sympathy in my heart?”
“Yes,” replied Mme. Bonacieux; “therefore, ask my own secrets, and I will reveal them to you; but those of others—that is quite another thing.”
“Very well,” said d’Artagnan, “I shall discover them; as these secrets may have an influence over your life, these secrets must become mine.”
“Beware of what you do!” cried the young woman, in a manner so serious as to make d’Artagnan start in spite of himself. “Oh, meddle in nothing which concerns me. Do not seek to assist me in that which I am accomplishing. This I ask of you in the name of the interest with which I inspire you, in the name of the service you have rendered me and which I never shall forget while I have life. Rather, place faith in what I tell you. Have no more concern about me; I exist no longer for you, any more than if you had never seen me.”
“Must Aramis do as much as I, madame?” said d’Artagnan, deeply piqued.
“This is the second or third time, monsieur, that you have repeated that name, and yet I have told you that I do not know him.”
“You do not know the man at whose shutter you have just knocked? Indeed, madame, you believe me too credulous!”
“Confess that it is for the sake of making me talk that you invent this story and create this personage.”
“I invent nothing, madame; I create nothing. I only speak that exact truth.”
“And you say that one of your friends lives in that house?”
“I say so, and I repeat it for the third time; that house is one inhabited by my friend, and that friend is Aramis.”
“All this will be cleared up at a later period,” murmured the young woman; “no, monsieur, be silent.”
“If you could see my heart,” said d’Artagnan, “you would there read so much curiosity that you would pity me and so much love that you would instantly satisfy my curiosity. We have nothing to fear from those who love us.”
“You speak very suddenly of love, monsieur,” said the young woman, shaking her head.
“That is because love has come suddenly upon me, and for the first time; and because I am only twenty.”
The young woman looked at him furtively.
“Listen; I am already upon the scent,” resumed d’Artagnan. “About three months ago I was near having a duel with Aramis concerning a handkerchief resembling the one you showed to the woman in his house—for a handkerchief marked in the same manner, I am sure.”
“Monsieur,” said the young woman, “you weary me very much, I assure you, with your questions.”
“But you, madame, prudent as you are, think, if you were to be arrested with that handkerchief, and that handkerchief were to be seized, would you not be compromised?”
“In what way? The initials are only mine—C. B., Constance Bonacieux.”
“Or Camille de Bois-Tracy.”
“Silence, monsieur! Once again, silence! Ah, since the dangers I incur on my own account cannot stop you, think of those you may yourself run!”
“Me?”
“Yes; there is peril of imprisonment, risk of life in knowing me.”
“Then I will not leave you.”
“Monsieur!” said the young woman, supplicating him and clasping her hands together, “monsieur, in the name of heaven, by the honor of a soldier, by the courtesy of a gentleman, depart! There, there midnight sounds! That is the hour when I am expected.”
“Madame,” said the young man, bowing; “I can refuse nothing asked of me thus. Be content; I will depart.”
“But you will not follow me; you will not watch me?”
“I will return home instantly.”
“Ah, I was quite sure you were a good and brave young man,” said Mme. Bonacieux, holding out her hand to him, and placing the other upon the knocker of a little door almost hidden in the wall.
D’Artagnan seized the hand held out to him, and kissed it ardently.
“Ah! I wish I had never seen you!” cried d’Artagnan, with that ingenuous roughness which women often prefer to the affectations of politeness, because it betrays the depths of the thought and proves that feeling prevails over reason.
“Well!” resumed Mme. Bonacieux, in a voice almost caressing, and pressing the hand of d’Artagnan, who had not relinquished hers, “well: I will not say as much as you do; what is lost for today may not be lost forever. Who knows, when I shall be at liberty, that I may not satisfy your curiosity?”
“And will you make the same promise to my love?” cried d’Artagnan, beside himself with joy.
“Oh, as to that, I do not engage myself. That depends upon the sentiments with which you may inspire me.”
“Then today, madame—”
“Oh, today, I am no further than gratitude.”
“Ah! You are too charming,” said d’Artagnan, sorrowfully; “and you abuse my love.”
“No, I use your generosity, that’s all. But be of good cheer; with certain people, everything comes round.”
“Oh, you render me the happiest of men! Do not forget this evening—do not forget that promise.”
“Be satisfied. In the proper time and place I will remember everything. Now then, go, go, in the name of heaven! I was expected at sharp midnight, and I am late.”
“By five minutes.”
“Yes; but in certain circumstances five minutes are five ages.”
“When one loves.”
“Well! And who told you I had no affair with a lover?”
“It is a man, then, who expects you?” cried d’Artagnan. “A man!”
“The discussion is going to begin again!” said Mme. Bonacieux, with a half-smile which was not exempt from a tinge of impatience.
“No, no; I go, I depart! I believe in you, and I would have all the merit of my devotion, even if that devotion were stupidity. Adieu, madame, adieu!”
And as if he only felt strength to detach himself by a violent effort from the hand he held, he sprang away, running, while Mme. Bonacieux knocked, as at the shutter, three light and regular taps. When he had gained the angle of the street, he turned. The door had been opened, and shut again; the mercer’s pretty wife had disappeared.
D’Artagnan pursued his way. He had given his word not to watch Mme. Bonacieux, and if his life had depended upon the spot to which she was going or upon the person who should accompany her, d’Artagnan would have returned home, since he had so promised. Five minutes later he was in the Rue des Fossoyeurs.
“Poor Athos!” said he; “he will never guess what all this means. He will have fallen asleep waiting for me, or else he will have returned home, where he will have learned that a woman had been there. A woman with Athos! After all,” continued d’Artagnan, “there was certainly one with Aramis. All this is very strange; and I am curious to know how it will end.”
“Badly,