D’Artagnan then related the poisoning of Mme.
Bonacieux in the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune,
the trial in the isolated house, and the execution
on the banks of the Lys.
A shudder crept through the body of the cardinal,
who did not shudder readily.
But all at once, as if undergoing the influence of
an unspoken thought, the countenance of the cardinal,
till then gloomy, cleared up by degrees, and recovered
perfect serenity.
“So,” said the cardinal, in a tone that
contrasted strongly with the severity of his words,
“you have constituted yourselves judges, without
remembering that they who punish without license to
punish are assassins?”
“Monseigneur, I swear to you that I never for
an instant had the intention of defending my head
against you. I willingly submit to any punishment
your Eminence may please to inflict upon me.
I do not hold life dear enough to be afraid of death.”
“Yes, I know you are a man of a stout heart,
monsieur,” said the cardinal, with a voice almost
affectionate; “I can therefore tell you beforehand
you shall be tried, and even condemned.”
“Another might reply to your Eminence that he
had his pardon in his pocket. I content myself
with saying: Command, monseigneur; I am ready.”
“Your pardon?” said Richelieu, surprised.
“Yes, monseigneur,” said d’Artagnan.
“And signed by whom—by the king?”
And the cardinal pronounced these words with a singular
expression of contempt.
“No, by your Eminence.”
“By me? You are insane, monsieur.”
“Monseigneur will doubtless recognize his own
handwriting.”
And d’Artagnan presented to the cardinal the
precious piece of paper which Athos had forced from
Milady, and which he had given to d’Artagnan
to serve him as a safeguard.
His Eminence took the paper, and read in a slow voice,
dwelling upon every syllable:
“It is by my order and for the good of the state
that the bearer of this has done what he has done.
“Richelieu”
The cardinal, after having read these two lines, sank
into a profound reverie; but he did not return the
paper to d’Artagnan.
“He is meditating by what sort of punishment
he shall cause me to die,” said the Gascon to
himself. “Well, my faith! he shall see
how a gentleman can die.”
The young Musketeer was in excellent disposition to
die heroically.
Richelieu still continued thinking, rolling and unrolling
the paper in his hands.
At length he raised his head, fixed his eagle look
upon that loyal, open, and intelligent countenance,
read upon that face, furrowed with tears, all the
sufferings its possessor had endured in the course
of a month, and reflected for the third or fourth
time how much there was in that youth of twenty-one
years before him, and what resources his activity,
his courage, and his shrewdness might offer to a good
master. On the other side, the crimes, the power,
and the infernal genius of Milady had more than once
terrified him. He felt something like a secret
joy at being forever relieved of this dangerous accomplice.
