Chapter III: The Stag Hunt (5)

"'One of my friends,' he began--'one of my friends, mind you, not
myself,' interrupted he with a gloomy smile; 'a count of my
province, that is to say of Berri, noble as a Dandolo or a
Montmorency, fell in love when twenty-five years of age, with a
young girl of seventeen, beautiful as painters have depicted
Venus. Joined to the _naïveté_ of her age, she possessed the soul
and feeling of a poet; she could not be said to please--she
intoxicated all who approached her. She lived in a little village
with her brother, who was a priest. None knew who they were, nor
whence they came; but she was so beautiful, and her brother so
pious, that none thought of asking. It was rumoured and believed
that they were of good family. My friend, who was lord of that
country, might have seduced the young girl or taken her by force,
as he chose; he was the master; who would have come to the
assistance of two friendless strangers? Unfortunately he was an
honest man, and he married her. The fool-the idiot!'

"'Why a fool, since he loved her?' asked D'Artagnan.

"'Patience,' said Athos. 'He conducted her to his castle, and
made her the first lady of the province; and, to do her justice,
she knew perfectly how to support her rank.'

"'Well?' said D'Artagnan.

"'Well! one day she was out hunting with her husband,' continued
Athos, speaking in a low tone and very fast, 'she was overcome by
the heat, and fell from her horse in a swoon; the count sprang to
her assistance, and as her clothes seemed to prevent her
breathing, he cut them open with his dagger, and her shoulder was
uncovered. Guess what she had upon her shoulder, D'Artagnan?'
said Athos with a strange wild laugh.

"'How can I tell?' said D'Artagnan.

"'A _fleur-de-lis_. She was branded!'

"And Athos emptied at a draught the cup that stood before him.

"'Horror!' exclaimed D'Artagnan. 'What do you tell me?'

"'The truth--the angel was a devil--the innocent young girl was a
convict.'

"'And what did the count do?'

"'The count was a powerful nobleman; he had right of pit and
halter upon his lands; he bared the shoulder of the countess,
tied her hands behind her back, and hung her to a tree.'

"'Heavens! Athos! a murder!' cried D'Artagnan.

"'Yes, a murder, nothing more,' said Athos, pale as death. 'But
there is no wine--we are drinking nothing.'

"And Athos seized the last bottle by the neck, put it to his
mouth, and emptied it as though it had been an ordinary glass."

This strange story, that could hardly have proceeded from any but a French imagination, is nevertheless very effective, far more so in Monsieur Dumas' terse and pointed diction than in our imperfect translation. The dame with the fleur-de-lis on her shoulder is not dead, but on the contrary married again, and proves to be no other than an emissary of the Cardinal, a certain Lady de Winter, or Milady, as M. Dumas persists in calling her. She it was who cut the diamonds off Buckingham's dress, and informed the Cardinal of the same. Throughout the whole book she plays the part of a sort of Mephistopheles in petticoats, doing evil for evil's sake; and finally, when in prison in England, gains over a fanatical young officer named Felton, who is set to guard her, and working on him by the power of her charms and an artfully devised story, instigates him to the murder of Buckingham, who is at Portsmouth fitting out an armament for the relief of La Rochelle, then besieged by Richelieu. She escapes to France, but there falls into the hands of her deadly enemy, D'Artagnan, and of her first husband, Athos, otherwise Count de la Fère. Her punishment is one of the last and most striking scenes in the book, which concludes with the capture of La Rochelle, leaving D'Artagnan a lieutenant of mousquetaires, and, to all appearance, on the high-road to further preferment. Some account of his future fortune is promised us by Monsieur Dumas; and, however alarming a continuation to a book in eight volumes may sound, we cannot help wishing he may keep his promise. There is less occasion to be alarmed at the length of a six or eight volume book from his hands, than at that of a three volume one from those of many other writers; and moreover one must take into account the ingenuity of French publishers, who manage to have the type spread out over the largest possible amount of white paper. The system of putting little in a page, and diminishing that little by the interpolation of huge and apparently objectless blank spaces, has reached its height in Paris; and, although an imposition on the public, it perhaps renders a book lighter and pleasanter to read. Light reading and pleasant reading Monsieur Dumas' romance assuredly is; and we can wish our readers no better pastime, during the long evenings of this wintry season, than the perusal of the feats and fortunes of the _Trois Mousquetaires_.

MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN.