shes 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."

It was then nearly eight o'clock in the evening. Milady perceived a bed;
she calculated that the repose of a few hours would not only refresh her
head and her ideas, but still further, her complexion. A better idea,
however,