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- Александр Дюма
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- Три мушкетера
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- Стр. 664/849
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In
short
,
at
the
moment
in
which
she
has
just
obtained
from
Richelieu
a
carte
blanche
by
the
means
of
which
she
is
about
to
take
vengeance
on
her
enemy
,
this
precious
paper
is
torn
from
her
hands
,
and
it
is
d'Artagnan
who
holds
her
prisoner
and
is
about
to
send
her
to
some
filthy
Botany
Bay
,
some
infamous
Tyburn
of
the
Indian
Ocean
.
All
this
she
owes
to
d'Artagnan
,
without
doubt
.
From
whom
can
come
so
many
disgraces
heaped
upon
her
head
,
if
not
from
him
?
He
alone
could
have
transmitted
to
Lord
de
Winter
all
these
frightful
secrets
which
he
has
discovered
,
one
after
another
,
by
a
train
of
fatalities
.
He
knows
her
brother-in-law
.
He
must
have
written
to
him
.
What
hatred
she
distills
!
Motionless
,
with
her
burning
and
fixed
glances
,
in
her
solitary
apartment
,
how
well
the
outbursts
of
passion
which
at
times
escape
from
the
depths
of
her
chest
with
her
respiration
,
accompany
the
sound
of
the
surf
which
rises
,
growls
,
roars
,
and
breaks
itself
like
an
eternal
and
powerless
despair
against
the
rocks
on
which
is
built
this
dark
and
lofty
castle
!
How
many
magnificent
projects
of
vengeance
she
conceives
by
the
light
of
the
flashes
which
her
tempestuous
passion
casts
over
her
mind
against
Mme.
Bonacieux
,
against
Buckingham
,
but
above
all
against
d'Artagnan
--
projects
lost
in
the
distance
of
the
future
.
Yes
;
but
in
order
to
avenge
herself
she
must
be
free
.
And
to
be
free
,
a
prisoner
has
to
pierce
a
wall
,
detach
bars
,
cut
through
a
floor
--
all
undertakings
which
a
patient
and
strong
man
may
accomplish
,
but
before
which
the
feverish
irritations
of
a
woman
must
give
way
.
Besides
,
to
do
all
this
,
time
is
necessary
--
months
,
years
;
and
she
has
ten
or
twelve
days
,
as
Lord
de
Winter
,
her
fraternal
and
terrible
jailer
,
has
told
her
.
And
yet
,
if
she
were
a
man
she
would
attempt
all
this
,
and
perhaps
might
succeed
;
why
,
then
,
did
heaven
make
the
mistake
of
placing
that
manlike
soul
in
that
frail
and
delicate
body
?
The
first
moments
of
her
captivity
were
terrible
;
a
few
convulsions
of
rage
which
she
could
not
suppress
paid
her
debt
of
feminine
weakness
to
nature
.
But
by
degrees
she
overcame
the
outbursts
of
her
mad
passion
;
and
nervous
tremblings
which
agitated
her
frame
disappeared
,
and
she
remained
folded
within
herself
like
a
fatigued
serpent
in
repose
.
"
Go
to
,
go
to
!
I
must
have
been
mad
to
allow
myself
to
be
carried
away
so
,
"
says
she
,
gazing
into
the
glass
,
which
reflects
back
to
her
eyes
the
burning
glance
by
which
she
appears
to
interrogate
herself
.
"
No
violence
;
violence
is
the
proof
of
weakness
.
In
the
first
place
,
I
have
never
succeeded
by
that
means
.
Perhaps
if
I
employed
my
strength
against
women
I
might
perchance
find
them
weaker
than
myself
,
and
consequently
conquer
them
;
but
it
is
with
men
that
I
struggle
,
and
I
am
but
a
woman
to
them
.
Let
me
fight
like
a
woman
,
then
;
my
strength
is
in
my
weakness
.
"
Then
,
as
if
to
render
an
account
to
herself
of
the
changes
she
could
place
upon
her
countenance
,
so
mobile
and
so
expressive
,
she
made
it
take
all
expressions
from
that
of
passionate
anger
,
which
convulsed
her
features
,
to
that
of
the
most
sweet
,
most
affectionate
,
and
most
seducing
smile
.
Then
her
hair
assumed
successively
,
under
her
skillful
hands
,
all
the
undulations
she
thought
might
assist
the
charms
of
her
face
.
At
length
she
murmured
,
satisfied
with
herself
,
"
Come
,
nothing
is
lost
;
I
am
still
beautiful
.
"
